


The Adventure of the Cardboard Hoax

by pagimag



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brighton - Freeform, Case Fic, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Medical discussion and examination of a dead body, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Quantification of attraction, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Silly John Watson, Silly Sherlock Holmes, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 39,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagimag/pseuds/pagimag
Summary: After Moriarty’s trial and shocking release, the uncertainty of the situation takes a toll on Sherlock, and he isolates himself on the couch. A welcome case of peculiar threats and murder finally gets them out of the flat, but John can see that Sherlock needs a break. On a whim they abandon a sweltering London for fresh seaside air, leading to picnics on the beach, fun fairs and dramatic chases, bee observations, quantification of attraction, fraught emotional moments, and a realisation of the need to define who they are to each other.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 59
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/gifts).



> Written for alexcat, Holmestice Winter 2020.
> 
> I couldn’t give you stuffy Victorians, but I’ll give you a case, romance - as far as Sherlock is romantic, and my first ever attempt to write them bickering now and then.
> 
> The story is set, and deviates immediately, after the trial against Moriarty in The Reichenbach Fall.  
> (The canon timeline is inconsistent, so I settled for late September 2011.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy their journey!
> 
> Eternal thanks to my amazing beta [Darkrivertempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest)
> 
> Originally posted anonymously on November 30. Date changed after reveal.

It's too hot for September. 

The summer seemingly needs a last revisit before the real shift into autumn. The sudden shift of weather has turned Baker Street into an oven. The windows at the back of the house are open to hopefully let in some cooler air from the shadows, though the slight air coming in is more tepid than cold. It brings with it the pungent smell of unemptied bins, which were heated up by the sun during the morning hours. The curtains in the main room are partly drawn to reduce the glare of the low hanging evening sun, the reflections lighting up the yellow brickwork of the houses across the street. Old houses do not ignore the changing seasons; from the gloomy and cold damp in the winter to this unbearable heat which belongs in the summer.

Sherlock is in his pyjamas, lying down on the couch beneath a plume of cigarette smoke. He's wearing his silky blue dressing gown, splayed open, draped across the backrest. Sherlock's been on edge ever since the shocking verdict of the Moriarty trial, and he's taken to chain-smoking indoors, too often.

John goes into the kitchen to inspect the freezer for ice cubes. He closes the glass doors behind him to hopefully limit the amount of smoke that drifts in from the main room. The ice cube tray is predictably empty, so he fills it up with fresh water, contemplating whatever they could have for dinner, that isn't in any way hot.

John's at home after a few days of too many hours at the clinic. Very voluntary hours, only briefly checking in on the now tobacco-infested flat. He's mostly kept himself upstairs in his room, but once in a while, he needs the loo, or the kitchen. Sherlock's incessant indoors smoking has left John with a near empty wardrobe, since the smell of tobacco makes his clothes unwearable after only a day's use. He doesn't trust Sherlock with doing the laundry when he's home alone, so the pile of dirty clothes has only been growing over the past week, and John is all but out of his favourite clothes. 

Today, he's put on the last acceptable jeans he has left, and he's wearing a tattered vest, which luckily, is well hidden beneath an old rusty red button-down that has seen better days. He longs for fresh, cool air and wind, but mostly he wishes for an end to Sherlock's current nerve-wracking state. He says he's bored, blaming a lack of interesting cases, but John doesn't believe it.

Just as John returns to the main room, contemplating luring Sherlock away from the couch, by letting him rifle through his old army duffle, salvation comes in the form of a phone call.

"Graham! How may I help?"

John rolls his eyes. "Greg. His name is Greg," he mutters, even though he knows Sherlock is very much aware of Lestrade's first name. 

"Oh! Inside the shed?" Sherlock sits up. "Excellent! Yes. Cushing?"

Sherlock swings around on the sofa and plants his feet on the floor for the first time since morning. "A lovely day to you, Inspector!"

John can't believe it. Days of inertia and now finally something more than smoke and tension. 

Sherlock stubs out his cigarette and rises. "John! We're leaving for Croydon in five."

"What? A case?"

"Indeed!" Sherlock smiles, and John is relieved to witness his returning enthusiasm.

"Aren't you going to have a shower and a shave or, I don't know, maybe get out of your pyjamas?" asks John, following Sherlock into the kitchen.

"No time to shower, only a quick change of clothes. Besides I'm less likely to be accosted by nosy reporters if I keep this," Sherlock says with a smirk, indicating at least three days of growth covering his jaw. "No hat, additional stubble, and I'll be practically invisible to those unobservant, superficially inclined hacks who call themselves journalists."

"You said Cushing?"

"Ca-tching!" says Sherlock, taking off his dressing gown with a twirl, in a sudden burst of energy and humour. He throws the dressing gown over the back of a kitchen chair and continues to the corridor with a springy step. John leans against the kitchen doorframe. "Cushing in Croydon?" he asks, worried.

"Yep," Sherlock pops the p, while sneaking into the bathroom.

"She's not dead, is she?"

Sherlock pops his head out again. "Who?"

"Susan Cushing. The lady who wrote to you asking you to take her case. Something with strange letters."

Sherlock looks slightly bewildered. "When was this?"

"Um, I'd say some time after the yarders bought you that hat."

"Huh."

"You dismissed her. Not interesting enough. You thought people were just throwing any old rubbish at you, just to get in contact, after they'd seen you in the papers. Remember?"

"Ah, vaguely. No, she's not dead," Sherlock says reassuringly. "But one of her tenants is. Look up exactly what she wrote while I dress!"

John goes to find the letter and soon they're in the back of a cab on their way to Croydon. The sun is setting, and John hopes for some lower temperatures in the hours to come. Sometimes, when the sweltering heat is at its worst, he doesn't know what made him go back to Afghanistan for several tours. Or rather, he kind of knows, but it all seems so distant from the life he has now.   
He glances over at Sherlock to see how he's suffering the excessive warmth and is somewhat taken aback at how unruffled his friend appears. Though he professes to care very little about general public opinion, Sherlock's seemingly indifference to his own looks isn't quite true. John can see that he's taken a few seconds to put some product, or maybe just water, in his hair. The curls are back to their usual defined and shiny state. He also has his coat, the one John thinks of as Sherlock's own form of armour, bundled up on his knees. Can't seem to go anywhere without access to that bloody flattering coat collar, even though it's too hot to wear.

Well, that's fine; John's brought his coat, too. You never know where a case will take you, or how long you'll be away. It's better to be prepared for anything. He's left the gun, though; it could get awkward when strolling into a crime scene filled with coppers. But the more he thinks on it, with Moriarty on the loose again, it might have been better to bring it, except John can't really walk around central London with a gun on himself on the regular.  
As they traverse the A215, John fills Sherlock in on the correspondence they've had with Susan Cushing. She'd repeatedly received mysterious envelopes in the mail, containing her own discarded receipts. It had been going on for some time when she'd contacted Sherlock. It could have been considered threatening, but she'd stated clearly in her letter that she'd never made any enemies and that there was never any letters accompanying the receipts. While looking for the notes he took when he'd rang her up, John found another letter from her, unopened. He hands it to Sherlock now, and after he opens it, they read it together. Apparently, she wrote again because she'd received something different: a cardboard box containing her own jewellery.

"That's more personal than receipts," muses John. "And a little bit more threatening, don't you think?"

Sherlock peers intently at the letter, flipping it over to study the back, then returning to the front. "She clearly thought so, since she's underlined, with the frail and shaky line of a quivering elderly woman's hand, that she kept it inside her house, contrary to the receipts."

"Yeah, those could have been nicked either inside of her home, or from the bins," John suggests. He rubs the back of his neck as guilt creeps up his spine. "Damn, I feel bad about this. I didn't even open the letter. I'm usually not that careless with these kinds of things, even if it's something you've dismissed."

Sherlock finds John's eyes and stares hard, a rare sincerity imbued in his gaze. "You are an unassailable record keeper, John. I don't doubt it." He gives John a small smile. "It seems, however, you may have had more pressing things on your mind."

"Such as?"

"Look at the date of her letter. Ring any bells?"

John finds the date at the top of the paper and his blood chills. "That's the day Moriarty was arrested."

"Indeed."

"Yeah, those days were a bit chaotic." 

Sherlock nods and folds the letter into the envelope, then placing it in his jacket pocket. "Don't feel bad about it, John. Even with the additional letter, I'd probably have continued to ignore it, as it could well have been some aspiring gonzo journalist, desperate to get my attention after the general hysteria in the press."

"Yeah," John chuckles. "You probably would have. But, now she's likely had a murder in her house. What if we could have prevented it?"

Sherlock smirks and winks at him. "Ah, John, the old lady is alive and well. We'll soon find out if there's any connection between these events."

*

The garden consists of just a plain lawn walled in on three sides, with a garden shed in the back. No flowerbeds or fruit trees. The shed is taped off. There's officers with torchlights in the man-high shrubbery behind it.

Flood lights are set up to light up the garden and the small shed, as the darkness is creeping in. There's a screen in front of the open door, to obscure the view of the body. Lestrade finally notices their arrival and strides up to Sherlock's side.

"Hey, great to have you here!" Lestrade frowns a bit as he takes in Sherlock's appearance. "New look?"

Sherlock ignores the remark. "Just fill me in."

"Well, so far we've done a thorough search of the garden. They're just finishing up behind the shed. We've not been able to find any tracks from any kind of struggle, or dragging the body after death. No signs of forced entry, as I told you on the phone. The curious thing is, why is he only in his pants, but dressed in socks and shoes with properly tied shoes?"

"Can't really blame him in this heat," quips John.

Lestrade wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah. But according to his landlady, he usually uses the clogs by the back door, when he's in the garden. And, his bath robe was hanging on the outside, thrown over that wall-mounted garden lamp beside said door." He points to the article of clothing still draped on the lighting fixture. "That's how she thought to look for him in the garden."

"Bit odd," John agrees.

"I need to see the shoelaces," Sherlock says abruptly.

The shed is small, the door opening narrow. It would be crowded if all three of them went in there. The deceased man inside is Brian James, a retired cabdriver. He sits slumped to one side, on a wooden chair in the middle of the shed, facing the open door. The floodlight shines off the skin along his receding hairline. He looks quite fit for his age, but death, and the insufferable heat, has made him bloated. 

Sherlock crouches outside the door opening, spies the trodden mud, sighs deeply, then makes a show of exclaiming, "Oh, footprints!"

Lestrade perks up.

"From London's finest bringing in damp from the lawn."

Lestrade purses his lips, shifting his weight, arms across his chest. "Uh, yeah, I'll have a word. First responders said they hadn't disturbed anything."

"Well, at a first glance, that's correct, apart from the floor. I'm going in."

It's a seemingly ordinary garden shed: old and somewhat rickety, in a clear state of disrepair, on the verge of decay, with greenery growing in through cracks in the floor and along the back wall. A workbench beneath a tiny window holds ordinary gardening tools, presenting an array of potential murder weapons. Plenty signs of wear, though no traces of current use. There's dust all over, undisturbed, which in itself is a story. Dust, or lack thereof, reveals multitudes. Marks on the floor shows that the chair has been repeatedly dragged across the floor between the door and the workbench, in search of daylight. A closer look at the legs of the chair makes it clear that the dragging motion was done a long time ago, as the coloration of the scratch marks on the wood has darkened with age. In a corner are yellowed, pulverised traces of ether-based polyurethane, degraded. No inner ceiling, low roof, rusty nails on the wooden beams. Traces of textile, brown and orange, that he suspects came from foam-filled seat pads for garden chairs which have been stored for winter, lying across the narrow beams. It looks as if they've snagged on a nail when taken down. No signs of such seat pads in the garden. Probably from the 60's or 70's by the garish colour scheme. Most likely unrelated. Except for an older manual push mower in the corner beside the door, with dried grass-clippings beneath it, there's nothing else that shows that the shed's been utilised in months.

John is leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock is reminded of the shoelaces and turns to the deceased.

"Right-handed, as indicated by the writer's callus on his right middle finger."

Sherlock crouches down. "The shoelaces are tied from the same angle he would have used if he put them on himself. Of course, someone could have tied them for him, from that angle, as opposed to being tied from in front of him, like you'd usually would do if helping a small child tie their shoes. But, the level of thoughtfulness needed to emulate the deceased's tying of shoelaces is statistically very rare when committing a crime. So, we can reasonably conclude that he put on those shoes by himself."

John turns to Lestrade, hovering behind him. "Any confirmed cause of death?"

"First responders confirmed his death, but the cause is unknown for now, though there's no obvious signs of foul play. They only had a quick look. It was the landlady's claims of threats preceding his death, and his odd state of undress, that warranted a forensics team." He checks his watch and frowns. "Which will arrive any minute now."

John makes a face that says _I told you so_. Then there's a flicker of guilt again that Sherlock observed in the cab earlier.

"John, please." Sherlock stands and takes a step back to let John inside.

He makes a slow circuit around the body as he puts on a pair of nitrile gloves and brings out his small torch. "The body is in _livor mortis_. Notice the pooling of blood in his feet and hands, Sherlock?" John carefully lifts the aforementioned foot. "He's been dead at least twelve hours. See the bluish purple marbling?" He presses lightly on the skin of Mr. James' calf, watching it turn white for a brief moment before returning to the indigo hue. He gently replaces the leg to its former position and checks the fingers. "The nail beds have pooled blood as well." He inspects the man's head. "Pooling in the ear lobes."

"So he died in the same position as he's sitting now?"

"Presumably, yes," John says, pointing to just under the man's jaw. "There's no vibices or tardieu spots, no ligature marks."

"So not a hanging, then."

"No." John angles the man's head as best he can. "Advanced state of protrusion." He takes another look at the back of the man's neck. "There's significant swelling around the base of the brain stem, near the cerebellum." He sifts through the man's greying hair, presumably in search of an injury, but finds none. "Was he hypertensive?" He prods at the bulge and grimaces, then glances at Lestrade. "Another hour here and you're going to have a degloving situation on your hands."

Lestrade looks to Sherlock. "Degloving?"

Sherlock smirks. "Imagine taking off your gloves, Inspector." Lestrade stares at the body and his face turns pale. "I assume I don't need to go into the details, hmm?" 

Before Lestrade can respond, there's a commotion behind the screen outside of the door. Angry voices. Lestrade disappears around the screen and comes back in an instant.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but you need to get out of there. The funhouse is closed to the public. Anderson has dibs on the shed and the body."

"What?" Sherlock wonders if he misheard the Inspector.

Lestrade actually looks sheepish. "Yeah, I wanted you to have a look first. But, his team continues on from here." He lays a placating hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You know I'm eager to hear your observations."

"Oh, please," Sherlock sneers and shrugs him off. "Anderson working on this?" He runs his hands through his hair and pulls at his curls in frustration. "Let John examine the body before Andersson makes a fool of himself."

Lestrade pats Sherlock on the shoulder, then gently directs him away from the scene. "Sorry, can't. I'd have liked this to have proceeded smoothly, but apparently someone spilled the beans and he's as upset as you. Now, get out."

They follow Lestrade towards the house, Sherlock and Anderson glowering at each other when they pass.

Before they reach the house, Sherlock spins and confronts Lestrade. "Why the hell did you call me in for this if you were planning to let Anderson throw me out?" he snarls.

"Because _he_ bloody begged me to ask you to come in if there was ' _anything remotely interesting_ ' happening!" Lestrade all but shouts, pointing a finger at John.

John seems taken aback, as if he's been caught out in a devious scheme. Was he expecting Lestrade to keep this from Sherlock? Didn't he want Sherlock to know about his quiet machinations? Why?

John clears his throat, no doubt hoping to shift the focus away from him. "Did Miss Cushing say what kind of threats she'd received?"

Lestrade wipes his brow again, cursing under his breath about the unbearable heat. "She talked about some letters and a cardboard box. Haven't looked into it yet." He glances at Sherlock. "Can you please do that, Sherlock?"

John gives him an imploring look.

Sherlock thinks the heat is finally getting to him, too, because he finds himself agreeing. "All right."

"Thank you," says Lestrade, clearly relieved. "And, you're welcome to get back in the shed again."

Sherlock's eyes gleam.

Lestrade's gaze narrows. "When the team is done, mind you."

"Killjoy," Sherlock scoffs and turns to leave with John.

*

Susan Cushing is, as Sherlock has already concluded, an elderly lady, residing on the bottom floor of the house. Like Mrs. Hudson, she's renting out two rooms on the upper floor, and has been doing so 'for ages' (which equals since her retirement) to be able to afford to keep the house on her small pension. It's been the same two tenants through most of the years: Wendy Badu, a fifty-something early years teacher, and the deceased, Brian James, a retired cab driver, who's at least twenty years younger than the landlady.

Miss Cushing's quite delighted to have Sherlock on the case, since she hasn't heard back from them in months. She's invited them into her small sitting room, serving tea and ginger nuts, which John knows to be Sherlock's favourite biccy. She sits perched at the end of her seat, in an armchair filled up with several cushions to support her back, hair wispy and soft, like a halo around her head. She wears both a cardigan and a shawl wrapped around her tiny frame, in spite of the heat--a clear indicator of her advanced age and the concurrent changed metabolism and loss of body fat.

Miss Cushing is happily recounting her decision to write to Sherlock Holmes.

"You see, those letters had me worried. Not at first, though." She nibbles on a ginger nut. "It was only odd. I never told poor Brian, or Wendy; there's no need to worry your tenants if you're not even sure it's anything more than a prank. But, then they kept coming, and I couldn't wrap my head around it. So, I thought, this sounds like the perfect peculiar mystery a private detective could work out."

"I see." Sherlock sneakily stashes a few biscuits in his pocket. "And then there came a cardboard box, correct?"

"Yes, with my necklace in it. That was a surprise!"

John watches as Sherlock's gaze roves over Miss Cushing, no doubt gleaming facts that only he can deduce. "Do you still have the box?"

"I don't know," she says.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You don't know?"

"Well, I don't remember getting rid of it. But I can't remember where I put it."

Sherlock sighs deeply. John expects a snarky remark, so he does what he can to keep the interview going. "How would you describe the box?"

"Oh, it was just an ordinary box," Miss Cushing says, waving her hand dismissively. "Small enough to go through the slot."

Sherlock tilts his head, searching for further details. "And you're sure about this? It wasn't placed outside the door, or hung from the door handle?"

"Well, I can't be sure. Brian brought me the mail. He always does."

Sherlock hums, meeting John's eyes.

Miss Cushing pats Sherlock's knee "You see, that's why I went looking for him in the first place. He didn't bring me the mail and the paper this morning. He's always home in the morning and usually only goes out in the afternoon. He likes long walks, but always returns no later than sunset. Some days he only pops by to bring me some garden flowers." She sighs. "He's a really lovely and thoughtful young man."

She doesn't seem to notice the odd use of 'young' about a man in his sixties. But then, she's old enough to be his mother, so in this context, he's surely a youngster.

"Oh," she covers her mouth, realising something. "Was. He _was_ a lovely man. It's a shame, really." She shifts in her seat.

"I'm sorry," says John.

"So, what did you do this morning, when Brian didn't bring you the mail?" Sherlock prods.

"Well, first I took the fire poker and banged on the heating pipes behind that curtain over there." She points. "They go straight up to his room."

"Right," says John, his eyes inadvertently drifting towards the ceiling, imagining how loud the noise would be on the floor above.

She follows John's gaze. "Oh, he doesn't mind, truly. I usually do that when I need something from him. He comes down within a minute."

"I bet he does," says Sherlock, appalled.

"But, his morning he didn't, so I started to worry a bit. I waited until after lunchtime, before I went up the stairs with the spare key."

John and Sherlock exchange looks.

"Now, I see you're thinking that's a bit odd, and we're a peculiar bunch residing in this house. But, this has been going smoothly for more than fifteen years, and we respect each other's privacy. Once in a while, I let them inside my flat to use the kitchen, since their rooms only have kitchenettes, and I don't mind the company. However I don't ever go into their rooms, unless there's a maintenance problem of some kind. My tenants trust me, and I trust them, mind you. I've happily left my key with Brian, in case he'd need the oven, when I've been staying at my sister's."

"I was more thinking along the lines of who could have got to your necklace," says John. "If there's spare keys, or lent out keys or such?"

"You needn't worry about that. I have all the keys in my flat, except when I give mine to Brian, as I said."

"Right. So, what happened next?"

"Brian didn't answer when I knocked, and I hadn't heard the taps running since last night, so I went in there, but he was nowhere to be found. Wendy was at work in Brixton so I couldn't ask her. I went downstairs to have a look in the garden, but Brian's clogs stood inside, by the backdoor. I thought it a bit worrisome, but picked up the mail myself and went about my day. It wasn't until I thought I'd have a cuppa in the garden that I noticed his dressing gown hanging from the garden lamp. So, I went out to the garden shed, to see if he was there. He used to muck about in there."

"Oh, did he now?" says Sherlock, with renewed interest.

"I don't know what he was up to, except mowing the lawn from time to time, but he was a good man." She drinks the last of her tea and sets the cup and saucer on the coffee table. "I trusted him, and I'm terribly sad he's gone. He just sat there and I could tell there was no life left in him, so I called the police, what with the funeral flowers and all."

"Wait," says John, noticing Sherlock's instant shift of focus. "Funeral flowers? The ones he used to give you, or?"

"No, no," she shakes her head. "I'm not suffering from dementia, as my sister would have me believe. At least not yet. I might be a little scatterbrained, but I am still perfectly capable of distinguishing between flowers. Brian used to bring me small garden flowers he'd picked. Now, the funeral flowers were something else. It was a bouquet left in a plastic bag, hanging from the front door handle, one afternoon. White calla lilies and roses, though it was only rose stems. The rose flowers had been cut off, like a _beheading_." She chops her hand dramatically in the air.

"Interesting," Sherlock muses, eyes alight. "And you believe all these things sent to you are from the same individual?"

"Well of course I can't know that!" She gives Sherlock a pointed look. "That's more your job to find out, isn't it?"

"Do you still have the flowers?" asks Sherlock, ignoring the chiding tone.

"No, I was horrified, so I threw them out before anyone else could see them. Didn't want to worry my tenants."

"Seems to be a theme," says Sherlock laconically.

"When was this?" asks John, still feeling guilty about misplacing her last letter.

"A couple of weeks ago. I saw you on the telly, all caught up in that trial. Star witness! I figured you were busy, so I didn't bother writing again."

John pauses in his note-taking. "And you didn't contact the police?"

"No. It's all very vague, isn't it. They probably wouldn't listen to me--a confused old lady who can't keep track of her own receipts."

"I'd like to see those, please," says Sherlock.

"At my age, the bodily decline can stand in the way of being taken seriously, I'm afraid," she says, paying no heed to Sherlock's request.

"Miss Cushing, the receipts?" Sherlock prompts, his growing impatience evident.

"Oh! Of course," she agrees with a smile. "I thought you'd like to see them for yourself. Just a moment, they're safe in a cupboard."

John figures Sherlock wants to have an undisturbed quick look around, so he follows Miss Cushing out into the hallway, ready to delay their return to the sitting room if needed. She withdraws a set of keys and opens a cupboard beneath the stairs, picking out a rather full plastic bag.

John blinks "Is that? That's the letters you wrote about?"

"Oh, yes. I thought it best to save them all." She hands him the hefty sack.

"Of course. You never mentioned how many of them there were."

Sherlock is apparently already done, as John can see him hovering by the door to the flat. He comes closer, taking the plastic bag, weighing it in his hand. "Miss Cushing, exactly how long have you been receiving these letters?"

"Oh, that's easy to remember!" she says, with a knowing smile. "It started March of last year. And, I'm sure of it, since that was when Connie Prince died. I've really missed watching her show."

John doesn't miss the shift in Sherlock's demeanour.

"Then I think it's time to examine them properly."

*

It's nearly ten in the evening, and Miss Cushing is exhausted after having gone through roughly a year's worth of receipts. Sherlock hasn't actually examined the contents yet, just help sort the envelopes according to date. But, with a near constant yawn, Miss Cushing is clearly ready for bed. She's arranged for her sister to pick her up, and will stay at her place, but Sherlock and John have access to her rooms if need be, so the investigation can continue.

The dining table folds out, so Sherlock and John had put on gloves to start to spread out the envelopes on top of it. They all have printed stickers with the name and address. Inkjet printer, probably printed in a home, at least not in an office or any official setting. Though that could have been a deliberate choice to confuse.

"My eyesight isn't as good as it once was, so I never really look at my receipts. I've only continued to bring them back home out of habit," Miss Cushing says, slowly gathering her things. "Then, when I pack up my groceries, they go straight in the bin."

Sherlock's gaze seizes on a possible clue, one overlooked while they were busy sorting. Each was addressed only to _S Cushing_. Why? "Miss Cushing, um, Sarah was it?"

"No, that's my sister."

"Pardon?" Sherlock asks sharply. 

"I'm Susan, my younger sister is Sarah. Don't worry, you're not the first to mix us up."

"Hm. Is there any possibility these weren't meant for you, but your sister?" he says with irritation, ignoring the look he gets from John. "They're all addressed to S Cushing."

"She did stay here for a while, but that was years ago, when she was settling the divorce."

"And you're positive these are all your receipts?"

"Well I haven't studied them all. But, I did bring out my magnifier to have a look at a few of them," she says with a wink. "Like a proper detective."

Sherlock tries not to cringe. "And what did you find?"

She shrugs. "It's the very items I usually buy."

There's something about her that's grating on his nerves and the feeling increases when she smiles at him. "Now, my ride is here, I'll trust you with the key."

John follows her to the car, carrying her bag. When Sherlock hears the engine start, he can't help but walk right over the coffee table and flop down on the couch for just a moment, stretching.

"Thank God! Finally some peace and quiet."

"You're too harsh, Sherlock." John has returned to the sitting room, amused. "She's quite an endearing old lady."

"Too much waffling. She'd do anything to avoid ever getting to the point."

"The body's still in the shed," John reports. "I overheard Sergeant Dononvan outside. What the hell are they waiting for? It's a terrible decision in this heat."

"Well, you would know from Afghanistan, I presume."

"Yes. I'd really try to avoid that if I was in charge."

Sherlock stretches. "Now, let's get to work!" He jumps back up, reenergised.

Sherlock brings out his pocket magnifier and studies the envelopes while lighting them up with a small torchlight between his teeth. They're all postmarked in central London, which indicates absolutely nothing more than that the individual behind it does know how to increase the chances of staying anonymous. The envelopes are incredibly clean; no visible traces of fingerprints, skin oils, smudges or smells.

Sherlock starts to open all the envelopes while John takes diligent notes. It seems the envelopes have been posted chronologically, the postmarks matching the dates of the content. No surprising patterns there.

"Now, make a list of the different supermarkets and shops."

The sorting of receipts seems endless.

"Right, so this stack from January to March has sixteen from Tesco Express, nine from Sainsbury's Local, two Lidl's and only one from Waitrose," Sherlock says as he points to each set. "And then there's a few more from the bakery."

When they've sorted through everything, the table is filled with neat rows of piles dating from March last year until a few weeks ago, and John's filled his notebook with matching columns with subsections of shop names. 

Sherlock is starting to consider this a futile quest. "I'm beginning to question her statement about not suffering from dementia." He starts to pace, hands on his hips as he keeps looking over the sorted receipts. "What if she's just confused and made this all up because she forgot she was supposed to send them to her accountant?"

"Believe me Sherlock, that's not what dementia looks like. I've come across it at the clinic, and this isn't it."

"But there's nothing here!" Sherlock gestures towards the endless rows of paper. "Not anything unexpected."

"Maybe not. Still, it seems to be working."

"There isn't anything substantial to be gained from these bloody receipts!" Sherlock is about to shove all the bloody mess off the table before he stops and looks curiously at John. "What do you mean, working?"

John quirks an eyebrow. "I mean, if someone wants to drive her 'round the bend, they're about to succeed, with you, at least."

"Huh." He tries not to think too hard on how he almost fell into that trap.

"So, are we continuing with the wares now?"

"Yes."

Sherlock starts in on the first pile, reading aloud. "Milk, eggs, tomatoes and yoghurt. Milk... eggs... tomatoes. Seems a bit of a theme. Toilet-paper, beans and flour. Weetabix, grapes and orange juice. Milk... eggs... tomatoes. Bread. Bread, bread, bread."

John is trying to keep up with the note-taking. "They're all from Greggs? The bread receipts?"

"Mm, no." He flips through the slips of paper. "There's definitely some variety here. " _Blackbird Bakery_ \--must have an affinity for mince pies." He waves another receipt. " _The Crusty Loaf_ \--dull, unoriginal name." He smirks as he holds aloft several receipts. "She definitely loves Jamaican and West Indies flavours--she's visited _Cornfield Bakers_ several times. She's really been out and about. If these are all hers, she's done an awful lot of shopping even though she's slow as a sloth and can't manage to go out in the hallway to pick up her own mail."

"I think it's rather impressive that she's been out of the house with that frequency at her age. I mean, the total of the whole period amounts to just about three times a week." John gives him a lop-sidded grin. "I'd say it's nearly triple to your frequency of just popping by Tesco for milk."

Sherlock huffs and throws a pile of bakery receipts at John. Some of them float and scatter to the floor. John gives him an admonishing look, but there's a hint of a smile beneath as he bends low to pick them up. 

Sherlock turns to the next pile. "Grapes and apples. Shreddies and beans. Milk... eggs... tomatoes," he continues, but John's scribbling has stopped. 

He's still crouching on the floor, gathering the fallen receipts. "Sherlock, look." He holds one up for Sherlock to see. "She's used a card. Apparently, Miss Cushing's not completely old-fashioned, even though she writes her letters with pen and paper."

John hands him the receipt. There it is, glaringly obvious, and yet he failed to see it: the last figures of a credit card number. The next receipt in the pile has an identical match. And the next, and the next. Seems he needs to relearn his own lesson about the difference between seeing and observing.  
They continue to sort through close to two-hundred receipts, confirming each and every one of them listing the payment by the same card.

"Right," says John. "At least now we're sure they're all hers, assuming that it's her card number."

Sherlock sighs, pacing. He needs a smoke, but he knows John hates it. He also needs John's steadfastness at the moment, not his judgement, so he fiddles with the torchlight instead, repeatedly clicking it on and off. In a sudden impulse, he drops to his knees, hunching down until the tabletop is at eye level, letting the light fall at an angle over the receipts. Triumphantly, he finally finds something out of the ordinary: a receipt with the indent markings of a penned message. The writer pressed hard enough to leave an impression and that's enough for him.

"John, please hold the torch for me. No, closer, and tilt it a bit more. Stop! Perfect."

John's slightly changed breathing pattern reveals his barely contained excitement.

"It's a woman's handwriting. Let's see..."

The pressure has been uneven, so there's not many legible words, mostly traces.

"... _find myself_... _most pe_ \- most people? No, _most peculiar_ ," Sherlock decides from the hardly visible letters. " ... _parallel_ \- _paralleled in_. In?"

"Oh, bloody hell," mutters John and inexplicably clicks off the torchlight.

"What?" Sherlocks asks, baffled.

" _I find myself in the most peculiar position of writing to Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective, of unparalleled intelligence_ ," John quotes. "It's her own bloody letter! Susan Cushing's first letter to you. She must have written it with some of these receipts lying underneath."

"Oh. No wonder I dismissed it."

"Yeah, it's not easy to give you praise, 'cause there's a fine line between you being chuffed or insulted."

Sherlock doesn't even have the energy to acknowledge the statement. He has lost all motivation from this tedious exercise. They've only confirmed that they know nothing more than what Miss Cushing's already told them.

"Well that was a bit of a shamble," John offers in a clear attempt to break the silence. "What now?"

Sherlock really needs a smoke, and at this point, he doesn't care if John minds. He needs nicotine.

"Actually," says John. "I think I can finish up here. Why don't you go have a chat with the still living tenant? Maybe she's seen or heard someone hovering by the front door?"

"Excellent, John!"

Sherlock is out the door within seconds, lighting up as he flees.

*

John jots down the last statistics, gathers the receipts from each row and puts them back in their respective envelope. Agitated voices drift down from the upper floor. John glances at his watch and grimaces. It's nearly gone midnight and he's sent an irritable Sherlock to question a witness. Not his brightest idea. He quickly refills the plastic bag and brings it with him out into the hallway, locking the door behind him. As he ascends the stairs, it sounds as if Sherlock has managed to get into an argument with Wendy Badu. John stops to listen to the conversation.

Miss Badu claims to be unaware of anything suspicious happening, as she's teaching all weekdays and often uses noise-cancelling headphones at home since she suffers from tinnitus.

Then it all goes a bit pear shaped when Sherlock doesn't hold back his frustration:

"Do you have impaired perception in any other sense? Are you blind? Can you see me?"

That's way out of line.

"Oi, cut it off!" says the woman. "You think you can just stomp in here pretending to be a copper?"

John has heard enough; this isn't going well. He quickly runs up the remaining stairs.

"I'm a consulting detective, working with Inspector Lestrade who's in charge of this investigation."

John reaches the landing. The woman stands in the open door, arms folded across her chest, dressed in a nightgown and a silk scarf wrapped around her hair. She's clearly ready to go to bed, and not at all in the mood for a chat with an obnoxious, dubious-looking nutter.

"I have permission to speak to potential witnesses, though with your inability to register anything even remotely out of the ordinary, I don't know if I should even bother!"

John inserts himself between Sherlock and Miss Badu.

"No, Sherlock," he says sharply, but with restraint. "That's it. You're done interacting with people for today."

"She's bloody useless as a witness!"

"Yeah, well, not her fault!" John snaps at Sherlock. He then turns and smiles at the teacher. "I'm very sorry about this. It was my idea and apparently I have a faulty perception of time, since I realise just now that it's ten to midnight. I'm terribly sorry. We'll leave you alone now. If there's anything that comes to mind, talk to the officers."

"Everyone in this house are useless witnesses," Sherlock complains.

John grabs Sherlock's elbow, trying to steer him away from Miss Badu to prevent further escalation. "Yeah, and one of the people living here is dead. Now, cut the shite and go pick up your coat--we're leaving."

Sherlock is somewhat stunned by John's sudden command of the situation, but acquiesces.

"I've already talked to an officer," says Wendy as they start down the stairs. "I've given my statement. And I lost a friend today." There's a waver in her voice. "I've had a shitty day ever since I came back from work to find my home surrounded by police tape, and now I need to try to sleep. I've got work tomorrow, too. I don't know what happened, but I hope you find whoever did this to Brian."

Her words seem to have a sobering effect on Sherlock.

"I will try my best. Pardon me. Goodnight, Miss Badu."

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow in response, before closing her door.

After spending fifteen refreshing minutes outside--Sherlock chain-smoking and John stretching, rubbing his temples and jogging on the spot--they decide to have a look at Brian's flat. They find the key in the top drawer of Miss Cushing's bedside table.

"Too easy," mutters Sherlock.

"Yeah, any visitor could have nicked it anytime. Especially Brian."

Sherlock pauses. "You think he's in on the letters?"

"I have no idea." John shrugs. "What do you think?"

"I can't see what his motive would be."

"True. He seems to be a good guy, according to Miss Cushing. And Miss Badu called him a friend."

"We'll see if his flat can give us some answers."

Brian seems to have been an avid reader. John peruses his bookshelves while Sherlock inspects the small dining table. "You said more than twelve hours since death?"

"Yes, he's been dead since at least some time early this morning," says John. He notices Kafka and Kipling, Tolkien and C.S. Lewis on the shelves. Also, a selection of books on fly-fishing. 

"It seems Mr James was alive to eat breakfast," says Sherlock.

There's a series of old photos of Brian and his mates, posing by a lake, dotting the mantle above the tiny fireplace. In one photo, he's grinning and presenting a big rainbow trout. Snowdonia 2003, 16 lbs, is penned beneath it.

"He's kept his room tidy, no dishes except for this plate with crumbs and a spot of marmalade and this emptied cup of tea with some dregs of milk." Sherlock sniffs the mug. "Not too spoiled, considering the heat. He's retired, so I imagine he doesn't have commitments early in the morning, except to bring Miss Cushing her paper. It looks like something or someone must have disturbed his morning routine."

Sherlock proceeds to open cupboards and drawers.

The only thing that stands out to John is a few economy packs of non-iodized coarse sea salt and a stock of toilet paper, stored beneath the bed. A pretty large stock for only one individual. Maybe he had a bowel problem? John recalls that salt under the bed might have to do with some Feng Shui-ish mumbo jumbo. How does that fit with Kafka? But then again, maybe it doesn't have to fit.

"Fly-fishing gear," says Sherlock from the closet.

"That fits," says John, then startles when Sally Donovan enters the room.

Sherlock quickly sneaks into the bathroom, turning the lock.

"Hey! Get out of there!" she says, pounding on the door.

"A moment, Sergeant," they hear Sherlock's muffled voice.

"I can't believe Greg let you in on this! Miss Cushing wrote to you about being threatened, and you just ignored the woman. Now that her tenant is dead, you're suddenly interested?"

Sherlock steps out of the bathroom. "Well, to be fair, neither I, nor the Inspector, knew about that connection when he called me in. And, I haven't told him yet, so who have you been talking to?"

"That's none of your business."

"I saw you speaking to Miss Cushing's sister just outside, when she came to pick her up," says John.

"Still none of your business." She crosses her arms and glares at Sherlock. "I need to see those letters."

"Well, they're useless anyway," Sherlock sneers. "They're all yours if you want them. John has taken notes of it all." He grabs the plastic bag John had put down on a chair and throws it towards her. 

She catches it effortlessly, eyes narrowed. "It's half past midnight and I want you out of here, right now," Sally commands. "How did you even get in here?"

"Courtesy of Miss Cushing." Sherlock smiles, dangling the keys in front of him. "Catch again!" He hurls the keys and Sally snags them one-handed.

John doesn't like the tension in the room.

"Sherlock, let's leave!"

"You don't have to tell me twice," mutters Sherlock as he picks up his coat and steps past Donovan, already digging in the coat pockets for a fag. He's out the door and quick down the stairs.

"Actually, about the letters... It was kind of my fault."

Donovan eyes John suspiciously.

"Sherlock dismissed her first letter, because it wasn't, um, substantial enough. But, she did write a second time and I... well, I misplaced the letter before even opening it. So, yeah. I feel very bad about what's happened here, and we just want to do our part to help."

"Still can't let the freak run around here intimidating witnesses."

John breathes slowly in through his nose. He purses his lips, clenches his fists. "Please stop calling him that," he says tightly. "It's not very professional."

She looks away, shifting her feet, as if she might feel contrite, but John doesn't believe in such fast changes of conduct. Still, he tries to relax and goes for levity:

"You've talked to the neighbours?"

She shrugs.

"No luck?"

"Not enough curtain twitchers around here."

"I see." John hovers at the door. "Well, I guess we're off for today. Good luck then, Sergeant."

She throws him a look, huffs. "You know, it's not clear to me if you're attempting to mock me or-"

"I was trying to be polite. Genuinely."

"Right." She studies him for a moment, then turns her back to him and puts her hands on her hips, sighing as she takes in the room. 

John leaves her to it.

*

Sherlock paces the narrow front yard, puffing smoke, when John eventually joins him.

"The body is about to leave the shed," Sherlock informs him. "I saw the transport arrive." He grins. "Anderson is helping them."

"You know what? Let's bloody leave," says John, looking drained.

Sherlock lets out a pillar of smoke into the air above him. "I'm ready to leave anytime. It's more than obvious we're not welcome here."

"No, I mean let's leave the city."

Sherlock just looks at him.

"We're in bloody South Croydon, we're already nearly one third of the way to Brighton. There's a train station nearby. I saw it from the cab."

Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. "What business do you have in Brighton?" 

John shrugs. "None. But, maybe you'd do well with some fresh seaside breeze to air out your lungs."

Sherlock scoffs. "Ever the doctor." He takes another drag of his cigarette.

"You could do well getting away from nosy reporters," John tries arguing. "Go outside while the sun is up. Not being accosted in public."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, smiling. "Do people not read the papers or watch telly in Brighton?"

"Just leave your coat off and we'll be fine. No-one ever recognises me anyway." John gives him a self-deprecating smile. "I guess I'm too bland."

That isn't remotely true. But Sherlock doesn't say so. Instead, he deflects. "Molly will most likely do the autopsy tomorrow."

"And she won't like having you around while she does."

Sherlock stubs out the spent remainder of his cigarette. "True. I'm still eager to see that autopsy report. She'll let me have a closer look at the body, when she's done."

"What will you do until then? I doubt Donovan will let us in here again. And, you hate waiting. I know you'll be pestering Molly about it tomorrow." John nudges Sherlock's arm with his elbow. "Let's not do that, this time, yeah? Let's leave this bloody case and city, just for a day. And, maybe you'll even figure it out while we're away."

There it is again--that tender attention, beyond doctorly care and soldierly duty. Some days, Sherlock doesn't know what to make of it. Ever since the incident at the pool, he and John have... what? Kept themselves in each other's pockets? Gauche. Been inordinately in tune with one another? Sounds like a line from a silly romance novel. He wants to dismiss the feelings that arise when he thinks of John coming to harm because of a careless mistake he's made. Caring is not an advantage, certainly not in these unprecedented times, when he is weighed down by an inscrutable riddle.

"The last train for tonight has already left London Blackfriars. If we leave right now, we can catch it when it stops at East Croydon," John offers, smiling. 

There's a softness in John's eyes, pleading. 

Sherlock shakes himself, trying to let go of these meaningless musings. He's not very successful, though. "All right," he says. "Let's catch that train!"


	2. Chapter 2

*

Of course they end up missing their train, running along the platform, only to arrive just as the doors close and it sets off down the rails.

"Damn it! So close."

John needs a moment to regain his breath. He's never been a sprinter, more of a marathon runner. Now, he's probably far from the stamina of his youth, but at least living with Sherlock keeps him on his feet with a certain regularity.

Sherlock is already peeling off the foil of another cigarette pack. He taps the back to get a fag out. 

John doesn't look forward to going back to the frowsty, hot flat. But right now, he rather longs for his bed... and something to eat, as his stomach loudly informs him.

Sherlock takes a sudden interest in his phone and begins texting away. "Hungry?" he asks, as if he hadn't heard John's stomach complaining.

"Starving. I assume I will be for a while." John knows it's futile to ask Sherlock to stop and eat while he's on a case, but maybe he can find a shop that's open and grab a sandwich and crisps. "Think the local Costcutter is still open?"

Sherlock looks smug. His phone buzzes and the smugness increases. "It closed twenty-eight minutes ago. How about some meze, instead?"

"Now?" asks John, incredulous. What restaurant would be open, let alone serving food at half-past one in the morning?

"There's a Lebanese place about three blocks from here. The owner owes me a favour."

"I bet he does," says John, relieved.

"She," Sherlock corrects.

John tries to ignore the prickle on his skin whenever Sherlock mentions a female he's had any lengthy contact with. The situation with Adler didn't end so well. He hopes this one goes better. "Right. Well, let's go then."

"We're also allowed to kip on a sofa, until the first morning train," Sherlock says with a light tone. "If you're still keen on Brighton, that is," he adds carefully.

John's not particularly keen on Brighton, specifically. It was just a desperate idea that popped up in his mind. He is not _keen_ , however, to sleep on a pull-out in the residence of a woman who owes Sherlock. What the hell did she do that she owes him? But, if he can get Sherlock to agree to get out of London, anywhere that will bring a change of scenery, even for just a day, to get a break from the past week's growing insanity, he's actually very keen.

"I am. Keen," he clears his throat, feeling a sudden irrational embarrassment.

He barely has time to register the small smile forming on Sherlock's lips, before he whirls around and sets off towards the restaurant, John struggling to keep equal steps with him.

John is quite sheepish once he's introduced to the proprietor. Majida is lovely--and very easy on the eyes. She's dressed in a pristine shirt, jacket, and well pressed trousers. He gets the feeling she might share a tailor with Sherlock. It makes his own barely decent clothing stand out.

Majida has prepared a corner booth for them, serving an array of both hot and cold dishes, even though the kitchen closed hours ago.

As she sets down a tray, full of tea glasses, tiny teaspoons and a bowl of sugar, Majida asks, "Are you all right with only candlelight? I don't want to light up and potentially attract any customers in the middle of the night."

"Of course," says John, feeling the golden light making him dozy.

Majida smiles knowingly and pours them both full glasses of steaming _yerba mate_ tea. "You look exhausted, both of you. Don't mind me, I'll just sit in the corner over there and do some bookkeeping."

Sherlock gives her a genuine smile. "Thank you," he says, with warmth.

"No worries," Majida says. She musses up his hair and winks. "Anytime."

John is a little bereft at witnessing Sherlock connect with another human being. It's so rare. John knows Sherlock is not without compassion, but sometimes envy creeps inside when that same empathy is not bestowed upon him. He shakes himself of the odd feeling and focuses on filling his stomach. John relishes dipping fresh bread in hummus and some of the best baba ganoush he's ever had. They eat to their hearts' content, then curl up on their respective seats, drifting off to the soothing sound of Majida's light tapping on her laptop.

She wakes them up, a little brusquely, after a few hours.

"You don't want to miss a second train, right?"

Majida takes them in her car, even though they're not far from the station, and drops them off with plenty of time left before departure.

*

The train is nearly deserted, the ride smooth. The darkness outside makes it quite meaningless to look out the window. Sherlock opts to study John's reflection instead, until John meets his eyes there. There is a brief flare of panic before he decides it's better to keep his eyes closed. It would not do well to let John know just how much he is observed by Sherlock. At best, it would make him wary. At worst, it would completely unnerve him and garner a fight or flight response. Sherlock admits, only to himself of course, that his study of John Hamish Watson has increased exponentially in the months since Baskerville. Sherlock was not wrong when he said he had only one friend, and that friendship becomes more dear, more _necessary_ as the days go on. His thoughts lull him into a light drowse, and much later, when the train rolls into Brighton train station, Sherlock finds that he must have, remarkably enough, fallen asleep before John.

The early morning air is chilly, but refreshing, the temperature in accordance with late September. A welcome change to the past few days' stifling heat of central London, where warmth is stored in the mass of bricks and pavements of narrow streets. Here the air is fresh, and the constant sea breeze transports the heat away.

They spend the last dark hour of the morning on a bench beneath the station's wide span of cast iron, waiting for the sun to rise, and the first coffee shop to open.

John is very quiet. Even more quiet than the pigeons huddled up under the glazed roof, masterfully avoiding the spikes adorning every beam. Sherlock deduces that he must be exhausted, without saying so. He watched John doze fitfully on the firm booth seat at Majida's, so he knew John didn't get near enough sleep. And soon enough, John predictably closes his eyes and shortly starts to sway and finally lean into Sherlock.

He admires John's ability to fall asleep on the spot. Naturally, it's a very useful skill when doctoring in a combat zone, where the shifts might be endless, and any small break needs to be utilised for maximum effective recovery.

John is a frequent napper. The _leaning into_ is more rare. It's something he never does unless half asleep or inebriated. On the one hand, it's a shame, since John's mere presence is very calming in itself. During the rare occasions they actually touch like this, Sherlock experiences a pleasant comfort that is highly conducive to slowing down his thought process. He suspects it produces the perfect balance of dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin.

It's a need he's reluctant to admit; the need of John's physical presence to think more clearly, the need of his touch, which provides a distinct focus point and helps him not to get sidetracked by nonsensical details his brain wilfully deems necessary to process.

In fact, John's touch could have been really useful during the past few days' exhausting brooding. Alas, John might not appreciate being used as some sort of cuddling device. At least not while sober. Instead, Sherlock took up his smoking habit again, in an attempt to clear his thoughts, distancing himself from John in the process. Oh, the dilemma!

Because on the other hand, it's a complicated thing--to long for this kind of intimacy. He knows full well that it could easily lead to something more raw, if John ever dares slip out of his carefully constructed impersonation of straightness, and embrace the obvious attraction he often unknowingly displays towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock wouldn't mind that at all, if he knew it wouldn't be just a one time occasion in the same vein as John's erratic dating habits. He'd prefer it to be something mirroring the feelings he harbours for John, ones he can't be sure are requited. He loathes the uncertainty.

To further complicate things, there's Moriarty and his recent, somewhat cryptic (though unmistakable) threat to Sherlock. He'll surely not have any qualms extending it to anyone Sherlock holds dear. _Dangerous_ \--in an even more sinister way than when John was dressed in explosives. It's a thought Sherlock can't shake off. It made him recognise the necessity of omitting the fact that he'd just had tea with Moriarty in their flat, on the day when John came home from court, intensely worried about Moriarty's release.

In a way, it was a blessing that John fled from Sherlock's tobacco fumes to his stupid clinic to do boring locum work. Because otherwise, he might have realised that Sherlock wasn't bored, but actually fretting over the precarious situation with Moriarty. He's been desperately trying to decipher Moriarty's riddles, figure out what he's up to, without dragging John into it. Partly to avoid the admonishment he knows will come if John finds out about the visit, but primarily for John's safety.

It is a fairly new parameter to Sherlock's constantly revised decision to help keep up the appearance that he and John are nothing more than mates. That's why he will soon pretend that John wasn't sleeping with his cheek resting on Sherlock's shoulder, when he eventually wakes up.

Last time John fell asleep in a similar position, he woke up with a jerk, sat straight up looking anywhere but at Sherlock. It hurt to see him distancing, but Sherlock knows it's for the best. He's well prepared for John to wake up on his shoulder any minute now, and equally ready to do his bit of playacting, to save John from any embarrassment. Anything to not succumb to the persistent desire for a deeper intimacy.

Oddly enough, this time Sherlock doesn't register the moment John wakes up, mainly because he doesn't jerk or clear his throat, or even lean away from him. The first indication that John is awake is a murmur into the fabric of Sherlock's coat. 

"Coffee?"

Sherlock is momentarily dumbstruck by this new deviation, when it dawns on him that John is fully awake and not sleep-talking. 

John straightens slowly, yawning, then points at the now open coffee shop. "Breakfast?"

"Oh, yes, breakfast. Of course," Sherlock agrees.

With a cuppa and a bagel under their bellies, they head out with a vague plan to eventually get to the beach to see the pier. John insists that it's something one needs to do when in Brighton, and Sherlock humours him.

It's easy to locate the direction of the sea. Everything seems to slant downwards. They eschew the broad main street and instead wander slowly through a quirky, bohemian area. There's an overall small scale picturesque quality to the narrow streets. They pass colourful facades and murals, and a large number of coffee shops, with an air of artistry and inclusivity.

Sherlock can't help but feel a certain gratitude that John was wise enough to push for this respite from the current case. He'd certainly let his frustrations over the Moriarty situation bleed into the case work. A bit not good. Not good at all. He needs to be clear-headed to tackle these new circumstances.

Their meandering finally brings them to the Royal Pavilion, residing in a Regency-style garden, providing a green haven in the city center. The buildings give off fairytale vibes with their fantastic take on oriental inspired pointed arches, onion domes and minaret-like towers. In the garden behind the museum, Sherlock notices a few stalks of pink hollyhocks, still blooming in the sunny patches of the flowerbeds. He recognises the familiar flittering of orange among them; _Vanessa cardui_ , Painted Lady butterflies adorned with black and white spots.

The lawns extend beyond a small garden café, shaded by old and new elm trees. They sit down on the grass beneath one of the larger ones. The sun has risen, but it's still low enough to reach them beneath the foliage. It provides a pleasant warmth on their faces, as they're resting their backs against the tree trunk.

Sherlock does feel a bit stiff after their interrupted sleep on restaurant sofas and train seats. He's fiddling with his phone when it buzzes from an incoming text.

"Are you texting Molly about the autopsy?"

"No. It's Lestrade. They've found the cardboard box. Miss Cushing finally remembered where she'd put it and called in to tell the officers. I hate to admit it, but it completely slipped my mind to look for it once she had left. I'll blame those bloody boring receipts."

"See?" John grins. "I told you you needed to get away. You're not as sharp as usual. Even Sherlock Holmes needs a little break once in a while."

Sherlock huffs. He knows what's bothering him, stealing his focus: his preoccupation with Moriarity's next move... and the worry that John might come to harm. But he'd rather not tell John. Instead, he shows John the picture Lestrade sent.

"Is that the same kind of address sticker?" John asks.

"Looks like it, but it's hard to tell from the picture."

"So what's up with the box?"

Sherlock shrugs. "It's like she said--an ordinary, small cardboard box. Apparently, she'd immediately put it to use as a container for bread-bag clips in her kitchen drawer."

"Oh. Too bad she didn't remember that yesterday."

"Yes, convenient, isn't it? It seems she has a blotchy memory." Sherlock stifles a yawn. "She said Brian used to muck about in the shed, but there were no traces of such activities, only the lawnmower had been used recently."

"Are you still entertaining the thought of dementia? There's got to be a different explanation."

"I trust your judgement, John. So, not dementia. I believe there might be a professional behind this; long time psychological warfare, no claims made for blackmail, a noticeable lack of fingerprints and the like, the threat increasing over time, making use of a personal item to demonstrate they have access to her home, and then topping it off with the beheaded funeral flowers. Those are significant. And now, a murder in her garden shed. What's next?"

"Christ." John pinches the bridge of his nose, slowly shaking his head.

"You don't need to worry about Miss Cushing. Lestrade has granted protection if she chooses to go back to her house," Sherlock reassures. "But there's something missing: a motive. Who's her enemy?"

John frowns. "She seems so nice. Just a little scatterbrained."

One of the reasons Sherlock is so fond of John is his oft flawed first impressions of people. "Is she, though? _Nice_?"

"Truly, I have a hard time imagining her making an enemy."

"She's lived a long life." Sherlock smirks. "She's had plenty of time to make enemies."

"Huh."

"Or, she's faking it all for my attention." Sherlock shrugs.

John raises a brow. "You really have a grandiose self-image."

"And you love me for it," Sherlock counters with a grin.

John snickers, turns away. He watches John stretch, then lean back against the trunk again, regarding Sherlock with a sincere expression. "Why would she kill Brian, though? She seemed fond of him, even though it might have been a bit of an instrumental relationship. And how?"

"That's what I hope Molly Hooper will give an answer to, in due time."

John contemplates this in silence.

There's very few people about. An elderly couple treads slowly on the walking paths, gravel crunching beneath their feet. Otherwise, it's as silent as it can be in a park in a city centre. There's a wind playing in the leaves of the elm they're sat beneath. The rattling sound is oddly soothing.

Having scant slumber the previous evening, Sherlock nearly falls asleep, but this time, he has the prescience to acknowledge the fact and takes time to arrange his coat on the grass, before laying down properly and seeking respite. When he wakes, he's quite sure John is sitting closer than before, having taken up the space where Sherlock sat previously. That is unusual, he recognises.

Eventually, they decide they have rested enough, and continue to explore the area. There seems to be something for everyone here, from tattoo parlours, vintage clothing boutiques, antique shops, musical instrument stores, second-hand bookshops and an Italian Gelateria, to erotic shops and psychic readings. Sadly, they passed the Gelateria in search of a supermarket, since John deemed it necessary to prepare for a lunch at the beach, picnic style. There's also a plethora of odd handicraft shops, like the one Sherlock is currently waiting outside of, while John's popped into Tesco Express.

The quirky shop's name is a mouthful: _Mr Martain's Miscellaneous Maritime Minis_. Rainbow pennants adorn the shop window display, which is filled with nautical-themed miniature paraphernalia. Sherlock spots a few miniature sailors, handsomely depicted. They're mostly clothed, in highly inaccurate and tight uniforms, arranged in risqué poses. There's even some equally well-favoured glitter embellished mermen, in the form of Christmas tree ornaments, dangling from the window frame.

John returns, having bought a simple foldable compact backpack, in lightweight black fabric with an ugly logo. He's put the lunch wares in it, and now he stuffs it with his coat too. He notices Sherlock's stare. "Got to look like a proper tourist when in Brighton." He squints against the bright sunlight and smiles. "You should buy yourself some cheap sunglasses, and you'll fit right in."

Sherlock scoffs and sets off towards the beach.

*

A long-reaching promenade, Madeira Drive, demarcated by pale green railings and tall, ornate lamp-posts, follows the waterfront, with part of the walkway currently fenced off due to a ferris wheel being under construction. 

They find the stairs leading down to the beach. The constant lapping of the waves on the Channel has carved out the lower part of the beach, so they sit down, elbow to elbow, right at the crest, stretching their legs out down the slope. The sun is rising high in the blue sky, shining on a sea of teal and on the light-brown, black and rust shades of the pebble beach. Even now, when the sun's been up for hours, the temperature doesn't reach the past days' heat of London.

Ahead of them is a seemingly endless stretch of water. The sea is calm, though the wind is constant. The waves break like white lace when they reach the shallow waters. The sound, different from a sandy beach, is soothing, hypnotising.

To their right, is the blinding reflection of sunlight from the ever moving ripple of waves, continuing beyond Brighton Pier, which is cast in a sharp silhouette. The constructional wonder rises high on a latticework of iron piles and tie rods. Sea green water is constantly licking the mass of rusty columns, looking like the tree trunks of a dense forest supporting the wider pier-head. The sound of flags flapping in the wind drifts from the top of the two white towers framing the entrance portal to the amusement arcade. The sun gleams off its domed metallic roof.

Further west of Brighton Pier, cut off from the shore and surrounded by glittering waves, is what is left of the iconic West Pier. Storm damage, fire and collapse have reduced the once magnificent pleasure pier to a sculptural iron frame, that cast an eerie beauty over the seafront. The skeletal remnants of the curved roof on the former concert hall reminds John of a Victorian domed bird cage.

There's naturally very few people around on a weekday in late September. John can count up to a handful, as far as he can see, squinting against the sun. Some are soaking up the sun in plain picnic chairs. Not more than a couple dare to have a swim, for even though the overall temperature is pleasantly warm, the sea is frigid. It must have been crowded here earlier in the season. The beach is mostly deserted, but on Brighton Pier, more people are starting to appear, as it's near lunchtime.

Sherlock shoves his hand deep into the plethora of small stones. As a whole, they seem light brown, but the individual pebbles are of an endless variety of shades, from greys to rusty browns. Some are almost black, some have white traces of chalk. All are pleasantly rounded from the constant erosion of sea water, some broken in half, but the edges, with time, all smoothed out. Creamy-white, broken and eroded shells, are intermingled with the pebbles.

The pebbles and shells are all warm on top, but when John digs his fingers deeper, mimicking Sherlock, they're cooler and moist.

He wonders briefly how high up the tide usually reaches. Are they sitting above the waterline now? Would their feet get wet if they stayed exactly where they are when the tide comes in, or does the water only rarely reach that high?

Sherlock seems rooted in place. Still, if not exactly tranquil. If they were in a different situation, John would have assumed he was in his Mind Palace. But his eyes are open; John can see them when he leans slightly forward. Sherlock's dark blue shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, one bare forearm resting on a raised knee as observes the waves. Or is he merely seeing them? He might well see nothing in front of him; John can't tell. He looks calm, focused... and all too beautiful. The breeze has messed up his curls, swept them away from his brow towards his temples, where they lift and sway against his ears and cheek. He needs a haircut, but John is loath to see Sherlock trim one of his most distinctive features. The sun brings out the auburn in his hair, and his stubble glitters in golden and rusty tones. Lips are a bit dry and chapped, as they usually get when he's been pushing himself, ignoring sleep and forgetting to at least drink water when he refuses to spend time on eating. His dark eyelashes cast shadows beneath his eyes as he squints slightly. Mesmerising. Perfectly within reach. 

Totally out of reach, unattainable.

They've been more quiet with each other, lately. That damned verdict really shook them, though Sherlock played it cool, made it out to have been predictable and unsurprising. Sherlock's sudden silence has been more intense and drawn out than ever before. John's been feeling left out, rejected. 

Worried.

They've had long silences before; relaxed silence spent alongside each other in their flat, Sherlock minding his own business and John puttering about. Sherlock doing experiments at the kitchen table while John blogged. Reading in silence and doing Mind Palace-housekeeping in silence.

Then, there's the loaded silence, like when they've had an argument. Or, the time when John was unsure of Sherlock's view on Moriarty, when the alluring intricacies Moriarty presented seemed to outweigh the severity of his crimes, in Sherlock's eyes. John was luckily proved wrong, when Sherlock showed clear disgust over the criminal's actions.

It seems their silence has been building up recently. It started during the trial, when Sherlock was focused, but short-tempered, and John was nervous as hell. That kind of silence isn't particularly good. It's a distancing silence, John is sure of it, but he doesn't really know what to do about it.  
The only thing he's sure of, is that he can't lose Sherlock to Moriarty's games. The case was a good catalyst to break the pattern, the trip even better.

The current silence is companionable, though, and filled with the sound of waves, wind and seagulls, and the soft rattling sound of Sherlock letting the stones sift between his fingers. Somehow being here, being out of their element, makes some things feel a bit more possible, breaking the silence, in more ways than one. Some things feel decidedly more within reach, if John only dared to ask.

This morning, John's defences were down, due to lack of sleep. Now, they're back up again and he's starting to second-guess what he's prepared. He's rather content though, sitting here, even if he'll soon get a sunburn. Where the stifling heat of London was constant, here the increasing wind is treacherous, cooling the skin and whirling away the warmth, while the invisible radiation keeps damaging the skin over time. At this moment, John couldn't care less. At this moment, with the mesmerising movement of water, the sound of waves ever-changing, yet constant, and his fingers buried in pebbles, John feels as rooted as Sherlock seems. The only thing he longs for is the courage to lean into him again. To put his cheek to the sun-warmed fabric of Sherlock's shirt, without the pretence of falling asleep. To stay there, to be allowed to stay there, feeling the slight movements of Sherlock's breathing.

He wants to stay forever.

The spell is broken when Sherlock pockets something from the beach. John becomes instantly curious. Is it a pebble? If so, what kind? Is it special in any way? And what's it for?

He doesn't ask. There are more pressing questions, and sadly, he's not ready for that conversation yet. Instead, he feels a restlessness, a need to do something other than regretting his inability to express the things he doesn't say. He feels the need to move.

"Ice cream?" he suggests. "Let's go up on the pier and get some. Have a look at the FunFair?"

Sherlock tilts his head, frowning.

"What?" asks John.

Sherlock gestures vaguely at their surroundings. "It's _cold_ ," he says, pointedly.

"Nah, it's sunny. We've been idle too long," says John and stands up. The pebbles give away and he has to adjust his feet, take a step back, higher up on the slope, before he falls on his arse.

"The wind is cool, and when it picks up, it will be even colder," Sherlock protests. "This is far from the epitome of ice cream weather."

"Epitome of ice cream weather? What are you on about?" John shakes his head. "You're ridiculous. Just put your coat on and pop the collar up and... um, yeah."

" _John_ ," Sherlock grumbles.

"Why this fuss? Buy a coffee then, if you're so chilly all of a sudden."

"John. There's _people_!" Sherlock exclaims with a look that's meant to invoke that John is being slow.

"So? His nibs doesn't want to mingle with the commoners, eh? I see, it's the _people_ who are the problem, not the lack of bloody _ice cream weather_."

Sherlock scoffs. John offers his hand all the same, but Sherlock seems on the verge of a sulk.

"Alright." John holds back a snigger. "Well, then I'll go get a twister for myself," he says and takes a few steps towards the pier.

"I'd rather have gelato," mutters Sherlock, extending his hand.

John pulls him up, smiling.

*

The pier is clearly lacking in gelaterias, so ice cream will have to do. They immediately seek out a soft serve ice cream parlour. John orders a raspberry twist cone and Sherlock a double fudge.  
They begin to stroll the length of the pier. Music flows from sub-par speakers with an overabundance of treble. The promenade is split in two by arcades and stalls in the middle, and people flock to the sunny side.

Somewhere, out there, are the shores of France.

Sherlock's well aware that John's been staring at him. Not only just now, but for a time, increasingly more frequent than before. It isn't unexpected in itself; Sherlock regularly does things which amazes John. However, the soft look on his face when Sherlock catches him staring, is a rather peculiar development. It's not as if they've had any adrenaline inducing chases, or the like, in the last couple of weeks. Even so, there's a distinct change in John's demeanour when observing Sherlock. Yes, that's it. It's not merely an expression of wonder at Sherlock's capabilities, he is actually observing.

Presently, John stands leaning against the railing, absentmindedly nibbling on his ice cream, seemingly spying for a glimpse of France in the distance.

Sherlock's certain that it's only for show, and what John's actually doing is watching him in his peripheral vision. Sherlock flips the small shell in his pocket. What can John read from him? Does he see the carefully hidden worry about Moriarty, and the fear that he will actually try to burn Sherlock's heart? It's surely evident to some extent. Isn't it? Sherlock thinks (hopes) he's done a rather good job covering it up with external stimuli--like smoking more than he's done for years, and allowing his internal restlessness to bloom on the outside. It's been reassuring to realise that John simply took it in stride, even though it meant he disappeared to the clinic for far too many hours a day, more than Sherlock thought strictly necessary.

John's care is obvious. But to what extent does he care? And why is he actually observing? What is he hoping to find?

Sherlock has several theories, but only one he happens to be more inclined to try to prove. He lets the shell come to rest.

A child, with a sports cap on his head, is sitting on one of the cast iron benches facing the water, eating his fish and chips. In front of the boy, behind John, is a seagull strutting around on the promenade in search of dropped treats. Sherlock sees the moment the boy makes the terrible decision to throw some chips at it. He knows what comes next. 

When Sherlock was five, and his parents thought to take them all on holiday, he innocently did the same thing. While his parents were preoccupied, Mycroft, older and knowing full well what would happen, let the seagulls swarm Sherlock... as a lesson, he said, not to naively offer things that were _his_ to others, lest they take advantage of him. 

Sherlock steps in close to John, positions himself at an angle where he's fully turned towards John's side and says, "I have my doubts about Miss Badu."

John blinks, reluctant to let his gaze leave the horizon, clearly not in case mode. "Oh. Really?" He glances at Sherlock, standing very much in his personal space. "About what?"

"Well, she clearly has full access to the house if she wants." Sherlock leans in a little closer. "She only needs to ask to use the kitchen."

The free hand-out of chips has naturally attracted more seagulls. One of them pilfers a chunk of fish from the boy's hand. He becomes upset.

"Yeah, so did all three of them, until Brian died," says John, catching up. "So what's the real reason you suspect her? You're not usually that shallow in your analyses."

The kid makes a futile attempt to chase the bird. Sherlock chuckles low, close to John's ear. "I didn't say that I _suspected_ her. I said that I _doubt_ her."

"Doubt what?" John is clearly disconcerted by Sherlock's behaviour. "That she didn't hear or see anything?"

Sherlock almost whispers, "Possibly."

Unsurprisingly the boy chasing the seagull soon becomes the target of, one can assume, its even larger mother... and its horde of other family members. 

"You mean she lied to your face?" John sounds sceptical. "Even when you practically raged at her? I don't think she's smarmy enough to pull that off."

One of the larger seagulls takes aim on the boy and swoops down from behind him. It makes a smooth fly-over, its sturdy webbed feet scrabbling at the back of his neck, hurling the cap off his head. It immediately gets caught in the wind, and predictably flies over the railing and down towards the water far beneath the pier. 

John catches on to the unfurling drama. "Oh, poor boy."

The following wailing makes Sherlock want to help the boy follow his cap over the railing. "Completely predictable development."

"Chasing birds?"

Sherlock smirks. "Yep. Let's go."

They head for the FunFair attractions at the seaward end of the pier.

"Miss Badu was quite forward, though slightly annoyed about the late hour, when I first started to talk to her."

John snorts. "Oh, you were polite?"

"Very. But, then I mentioned it was a sad thing Brian's 'mucking about' in the shed probably led to his death. Interestingly enough, she didn't contradict me. So, I put on a bit of pressure and it all delved into a shouting match. There might have been a bit of an overreaction on my part."

"You don't say?"

"She also had a nervous tick going on. Did you notice?"

"Uh, didn't really think about it, I was kind of more focused on getting you out of her way," says John. "But then again, it's the same as with Brian--what would she gain from anonymously threatening her landlady, or killing her supposed friend?"

"I'm not sure how that works out, but I'm positive she knows something she's not telling us, and doesn't want me to find out."

An impressive number of rides have been squeezed in at the wide pier-head: roller coasters, bouncy castles, dodgems, a helter-skelter and an old-fashioned carousel. They pause near the Horror Hotel ride, watching people load into small cars, only to be whisked away into the dark building. Sherlock is mildly amused for what passes as 'horror' these days. 

John winces at one of the rider's shrill, high-pitched screams from within the attraction. "None of Miss Cushing's residents are well off. I can't see how their position would improve by trying to scare their landlady in her home, as it's their home too."

"Miss Badu's a teacher. Just think of much of a poker face you'd need to deal with the kid's parents." He guides John away from the ride and towards the Fun Palace and Side Shows. "She might have a talent for keeping information to herself without letting it on."

"But there doesn't seem to be any clear motive or perpetrator. I realise we need to tick off the residents of the house first, as there's no clear indication of an intruder yet. But, if it's someone external, who would it be?"

" _That_ is a very good question, John." Sherlock presses the tips of his index fingers to his lips. "Though it bugs me that Miss Badu tried to give the impression that she doesn't know who I am."

"Oh, so that's how to get your attention? Pretend to not know the great Sherlock Holmes," John teases. "Too bad I can't pull that trick. For real, though, I bet Donovan and Lestrade are still puttering about in that garden, mopping up after Anderson tried to move the body before bagging it." John sniggers to himself. "Now we're all waiting for Molly's report. Until then, cheers!" John raises the remaining stump of his ice-cream in a toast.

Sherlock can't help but smile.

They finally reach the Side Shows and arcade, with a shooting gallery and tin cans, as well as the obligatory small child attraction of Hook a Duck, tempting the little ones with soft plushies in garish colours.

Sherlock leans into John, dropping his voice. "You'd kill it in the shooting gallery."

John gives him a crooked smile. "So would you."

"Let's go then," says Sherlock, and there's a flicker of something in John's eyes.

John giggles at the ridiculous targets, but as soon as he has the rifle in his hands, he collects himself in a mere second. John Watson, steady and focused, is a sight to behold. Of course, he hits the mark all six times in a row.

The moment Sherlock takes aim, John leans in to murmur in his ear, "Always know where the muzzle is pointing and never point it in an unsafe direction."

"Shut up," says Sherlock, trying to focus.

John chuckles. "You need the reminder. Your gun safety is non-existent, and you know it, too."

Sherlock gets a grip on himself, and since his aim is fairly good, he manages to hit the mark, though not straight in the bull's eye, like John.

They win three straight sets each, and get a standing ovation from a couple of elderly women. Both the stall holder and a bunch of kids are impressed, but they get scandalised looks from their mothers. When they give away their cuddly toy prizes to the kids, the mothers seem to thaw up a bit, except for one of them who gets even more offended.

It's a good thing that they both got a bit of target practice, even though the air rifles aren't really comparable to John's SIG-Sauer. Sherlock suspects they might appreciate the practise soon.

It's also a good thing that John doesn't know that his firearm is currently in Sherlock's coat pocket.

Some people flock to the side of the pier deck to watch two brides having their wedding photography done on the massive old groyne, with the sea and the pier as a backdrop. Formally, it's a civil partnership, but the brides evidently haven't let that stop them from celebrating accordingly. Sherlock spots an old shiny red and chrome convertible Cadillac, with tailfins, parked by the pier entrance, adding to the celebration, decorated with white ribbons and bows. John watches the brides pose for the photographer, white tulle and organza flowing in the wind. The onlookers cheer when they kiss. John turns around with a smile, seeking Sherlock's eyes.

It's time.

"John! Pickpocket!" Sherlock points towards the nearest stalls. "Stealing from a _child_!" He manages to sound appalled enough, since John immediately springs into action. "A short man in a grey sweater," Sherlock says with urgence, pointing beyond the gathered crowd, towards the seaward end of the pier.

Then Sherlock starts running and soon they're both off in pursuit. They run along the pier deck, barely avoiding bumping into people, making excuses as they go.

When John catches up with him, Sherlock shouts, "John! He's on the other side of the loos!"

John darts around the corner and Sherlock continues forward to meet him at the end of the building. He rounds an elderly woman with a child in a stroller, and then he's suddenly flying through the air and lands awkwardly on his right hand. Bloody uneven timber deck planks! He scrambles to get up. He needs to catch John behind the corner, but his hand hurts when he puts weight on it, so he does a side roll to get to his feet and sets off towards the end of the arcade.

He manages to sneak around the corner just a few seconds before John. He must have been slowed down while trying to identify the non-existent perpetrator in the crowd. When John rounds the corner, Sherlock is quick to grab his arm. "Down!" he hisses, crouching and pulling John down with him beside a bench.

"What? Where did he go?" John's eyes dart everywhere, still on the hunt.

They're both panting hard from exertion.

"He's got a knife." Sherlock notices the instant change in John's demeanour.

"Christ! Did he attack you?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, showing off his hurt hand for good measure.

"Damn it!" John pants, brows knitted, reaching for Sherlock's hand.

"No bloodshed. He was only being rough, then flexing the knife to keep me off. It's just a scratch."

"I should have brought the gun," says John, still breathing hard from the race. He's prodding all parts of Sherlock's hand, in search of any injury.

"Yes, you should have," says Sherlock, trying hard to keep a smile from his face. "Ouch!" He feels pain near the base of his thumb, as John manipulates it.

"Can you pinch?"

Sherlock tries, then grimaces. "Yes, but it hurts a bit."

"I thought you punched him." John gives him a measured look. "You didn't, though. You fell," he determines.

"I did."

"It's a very common injury in rugby, falling with an outstretched hand. You didn't hold onto something at the moment of impact?"

"No. Is this relevant?"

"You're lucky. You could have gotten yourself a case of skiers' thumb. This seems to be a mild sprain. Maybe just a stretch of the ligaments. Keep your hand above heart level and we'll find an ice pack for you soon. I'll need to check on it later, keep an eye on any swelling." John lets go of Sherlock's hand after the brief inspection. "Now where did the bastard go?" he adds, still ready to take up the chase.

"He pushed past me and turned back towards land. I called the police," says Sherlock, standing back up.

"You did?" John looks perplexed.

Maybe that was a bit of a stretch, considering how fast this went. "Yes, I did. No use to keep chasing him now. They're ready to welcome him ashore."

"Okay. Right." John rises, looking a bit displeased with the fact that this little adventure seems to be over.

"Hungry?" says Sherlock.

"What?" John is momentarily confused, but quickly catches up. "Oh, yes. I brought lunch. Yeah, that's long overdue."

"Let's go back down to the beach then, shall we?"

*

Before they leave the pier, John buys two ice lollies, and asks for directions to the nearest pharmacy.

He keeps the ice lollies in their packaging, folds Sherlock's scarf around them, then places them on both sides of Sherlock's metacarpophalangeal joint. He wraps the rest of the scarf around it all, like an oversized bandage.

"It's not a perfect ice pack, but I think we'll make do. It's to keep the swelling down."

"You're very resourceful, John," Sherlock says, with admiration.

"It's not enough, though. We'll go straight up to the pharmacy on Saint James' Street and get some crepe bandage so I can secure your thumb and you don't damage it more than you already have. I'll just pop in, won't be a moment. Our picnic will have to wait."

Sherlock grumbles a bit but follows.

John is lucky. There's few customers in the pharmacy, so he manages to stay true to his word and is in and out in less than two minutes. He grins at Sherlock when he returns with a pack of crepe bandage in hand. When he's put it in the backpack, they make their way back to the beach.

The weather has turned since the sunny morning hours. There is something sinister building up out at sea, but so far it's still sunny. There will probably be a thunderstorm within hours, but John doesn't care.

They sit down on top of their coats, roughly at the same spot where they sat previously.

It's picnic time.

John opens up the flimsy backpack and brings out the wrapped pickle-and-cheese sarnies.

"Excuse the sogginess of these. I forgot about them before. It seems the ocean has a certain way of lulling you into oblivion." 

Sherlock is hungry enough, so John helps unwrap his sarnie. Sherlock starts in on it while John wrangles the bottle out of the backpack.

The seagulls are equally starved and start to gather around them. Sherlock needs to pause his eating to get a hand free to throw pebbles at them to keep them away. "Bad bird! Get off!"

John isn't used to seeing Sherlock this affected by an injury. Yes, they've had close calls in the past two years, what with the damn fool almost letting himself get killed the very day they met, but this is different. A little more than a scratch, but an immediate impairment.

Damn pickpocket. He'll need to immobilise Sherlock's thumb so the mild sprain won't become a full-on ligament tear.

John twists the wire off the bulge at the top of the bottle and turns to the sun, ever the marksman, to pop the bottle open. He doesn't see where the cork lands. When he turns back, he's met by Sherlock's warm smile.

"Sarnies and champagne? You're full of wonders, John."

John chuckles, a tad embarrassed by the praise, and the evidence of him planning this hours ago. Tesco had half-sized bottles, too, but for some reason, he chose the regular size. It seems silly, now. He also bought plastic cups on stems and now he pours the champagne with a swirl. He hands Sherlock his cup, and pours one for himself.

"What are we celebrating?"

"I don't know. I guess, just this," John says, indicating their general surroundings.

"The sea?"

"Yes, and just- just being here, relaxing, fresh air... and the company." He grins, feeling a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"All right then," Sherlock murmurs and raises his plastic glass, the champagne glinting in the afternoon sun. "To the sea, and to us."

"To the sea and to us," John repeats, feeling instant relief.

The champagne brings a refreshing citrusy tang and a slight tickle of bubbles to his tongue.   
Some time later, after downing a couple of glasses, he feels a relaxing warmth spreading inside. What a feeling--sitting on the beach with windswept hair, listening to the loud rhythm of the crashing tide coming in.

Sherlock has put down his half full glass, balancing it in a pile of rounded stones. He's back to touching shells and pebbles, his fingers seeking out the ones that in some way differ from the rest.

It's hypnotising to watch.

Sherlock grabs a handful, letting it sift through his fingers. He snatches a particularly shiny black stone and inspects it briefly. Then he abruptly flings the pebble further down the beach, like he's attacking an invisible enemy.

"The seagulls better watch out," John says. "That was vicious." Sherlock doesn't answer, only presses his lips together, tightly. "Sherlock?" John asks, tentative.

"It's nothing, John." He goes back to running his fingers through the stones, finding a shell. His thumb caresses the broken and mellowed form, repeating the gesture several times. John finds it incredibly sensual.

He empties his next glass and finally dares to ask: "Was that what you picked up earlier?" He indicates Sherlock's lefthand trouser pocket. "The shells?"

"Ah, yes." Sherlock brings up a handful for John's inspection. " _Crepidula fornicata_ , Atlantic slipper limpets."

"What are you doing with them? Why did you keep them?"

Sherlock gives him a fond smile. "I found a perfect sample to keep in my pocket."

"What for?"

"Helps me think." He picks up a shell to show John. It's perfectly cream-coloured with a brownish pattern. "See?'' He turns it between his fingers, like a magician would turn a penny. Then he lets it rest with the rounded inside turned upwards and puts his thumb to it, making small circles in the perfectly digit shaped hollow of the shell. "Haven't had a smoke since London."

"Christ!" He's right, and John hasn't even noticed.

"You said I needed to 'air out my lungs', so... " He shrugs.

John blinks, remembering Sherlock's injury. "Let me see your other hand."

Sherlock obliges, and John unwraps the scarf. The ice lollies have turned into goo in their packaging, no longer acting as a splint.

"And now hold your hands together. I want to compare them to detect any swelling." John eyes them carefully. "Right. Slight swelling and mild bruising. That's a very good sign." He repeats the initial assessment. "You're tender between thumb and index finger, and have a weak grip. You've stretched the ligament that stabilises your thumb joint." He gets the roll of crepe bandage out and starts to wrap it around the wrist, but Sherlock withdraws. John tilts his head to look him in the eye. "Seriously?"

"I'll be careful," Sherlock promises.

John scoffs. "Right."

"I know, but it feels better now. I'll keep it above heart level," Sherlock tries to bargain.

"Sherlock," says John, with great forbearance. "It's important that you let the stretched ligament rest and avoid applying any pressure or resistance to your thumb. The bandage will help you with that. Let me do this and then you can faff about to your heart's content."

"All right, then."

"Thank you." John wraps his wrist again, firmly. "Not too tight? No tingling?"

"Nope."

"Good."

When John has finished the bandaging, he pinches the nail on Sherlock's thumb to check the circulation, before he secures the end of the bandage at the wrist. "Sadly, there'll be no violins or guns for you the next four to six weeks."

Sherlock makes a face of disappointment and doubt. "That's impossible."

"I know it's a bother, but as long as you manage to be careful, and do some exercises if needed, you'll be fine," John reassures. "I assume you're able to text and scroll with either hand?"

"More or less." 

"Good, because you should definitely not try to text using this thumb."

The sky's still blue, but dramatic clouds start to appear, shielding the sun from time to time. The temperature drops slightly every time it happens.

Sherlock unties his shoes one handed. He notices John's questioning look. "I was thinking of skinny-dipping, but the nudist beach is far away, over there." He points eastwards along the beach, and winks. "I just want to dip my toes while it's still sunny, and before the tide goes up too high."

He gets his socks off, but has a difficult time trying to pull up his trouser legs. John crouches down to help him, feeling slightly unbalanced, realising he's been a bit liberal with the champagne. It happens to provide a perfect excuse to rest his forehead against Sherlock's thigh, while folding up his trouser legs. He realises Sherlock will be semi-dependent on him to get through daily functions. There's an intimacy inherent in the role of caregiver, of seeing people at their most vulnerable. John would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that his ethics are becoming a little flexible when it comes to Sherlock, given the situation. 

Sherlock saunters down the slope and out into the shallow water. He walks just a bit too far out, apparently realising his mistake and making a jump to avoid the incoming wave, but ultimately ends up with his trousers wet up over his knees. He laughs about it and turns to John, who meets his eyes with a genuine, relaxed grin. Sherlock gestures for John to come join him. John declines; he's rather content sitting there, watching Sherlock's striking silhouette against the glittering water.

Sherlock soon returns. He stops halfway up the slope, picking up something from the ground, then continues up, all grace and beauty. He crouches down beside John, showing him his find. It's an egg sized pebble split in half.

"Look, a geode!" He tilts it, and the sunlight reveals a sparkling core. "A flint nodule with quartz crystals inside. Beautiful."

John feels a sudden pang of melancholia. He knows all about a hard as rock outer shell, with a beautiful inside. If only Sherlock wasn't so hard to crack open.

*

After some persuasion, John briefly joins Sherlock in the shallows. They stand next to each other watching their own feet being swallowed up by incoming waves, and the way the seafoam forms transient patterns as the water flows around their calves on its way to the shore. They feel the tickle and pull of the receding water, and the pebbles beneath their feet shift and roll away until they're standing, swaying, in a hollow. It's such a simple, but captivating, observation in endless repetition, that Sherlock isn't sure when John turned back to the shore.

After Sherlock's toes have become uncomfortably numb, he ambles back to where John is sitting, and wiggles his foot in front of his amused face. John shakes his head, but decides to strip down to his vest and uses his own shirt to dry Sherlock's feet, and then helps him into his socks and shoes, tying them off. John points out powdery smudges on the back of Sherlock's trousers. It's rusty red-brown residue from the pebbles, and he insists on helping rub them off. He puts his shirt back on, full of wet patches, and proceeds to rub off their coats too. They put them on and grab their things. Sherlock rests his hand across his chest, tucked inside the coat, ducking his head a bit as a brisk wind is picking up.

They walk slowly along the shore, eastwards, with the sun on their backs. John is a bit unsteady, as he'd been downing champagne too fast, considering the lack of sleep and highly irregular meals during the last twenty-four hours.

It's hard work, even for Sherlock, to walk on the pebble beach. They seek out the packed, solid areas, but every so often the ground gives away and their feet slide on the rolling pebbles. They constantly need to counteract the imbalance to keep from slipping.

Now the rising tide is evident. There's a dramatic shift in temperature when the sky starts to turn grey. Seagulls are soaring high in the sky, riding the buffeting winds. Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck against the chill.

The beach feels endless. The colour of the sky and the sea start to merge, and it's greyer than ever. They pass an odd collection of flint statues and a deserted beach volleyball court. Here, the white stuccoed Regency style buildings rise high up behind them on top of the steep cliff. Even the bold souls of the naturist beach forgoes to brave the incoming storm. 

They reach another curved groyne, just as the last fishers are packing up their gear. John and Sherlock pass them, walking out to the rising water, the mortared flint walls of the groyne shielding them from the rushing tide. The accelerating intensity of the weather makes Sherlock feel warm and relaxed on the inside, strong and resilient in body, at least as long as he has his coat on. All except for his weakened hand.

On John's insistence, they head for the Marina, although his calves and arse must be burning at this point. At least Sherlock's are. Luckily, they find a paved walkway along the small scale railway dividing the beach from the road beneath the cliff.

They follow it to the end station and Sherlock is ready to give up, but John pushes on since they can see the billowing waves crash in against the breakwater shielding the Marina. They pass along graffitied concrete, soon realising they'd severely underestimated the distance. The breakwater is huge.

They reach an underpass, which brings them to endless stretches of car parks and then finally the jetties of the Marina Boatyard, filled with rows and rows of recreational boats. There are outdoor seating areas in front of the restaurants along the promenade deck. They're all abandoned in this weather, the sunshades tied down securely, tablecloths and menu boards folded away.

The wind is whipping his hair in his eyes. There's an insistent metallic clang in the air. It's the clattering of hundreds of halyards beating against aluminium masts in the wind. Sherlock feels an urge to walk out on the breakwater, just to get closer to the raging water, to feel the alluring power of the sea.

But this is more than enough, he thinks, because John is clearly cold, looking tense, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears. He's still a bit tipsy, even after the exertion of walking nearly two miles on a pebble beach, and in good humour.

"Ah, look at you, all cosied up in your coat," he says, teeth clattering.

Sherlock's not sure what's driving John's determination to expose himself to nature's elements like this. He didn't bring a scarf, nor a jumper, and his coat isn't nearly as warm as Sherlock's. It's short, leaving his jeans clad thighs exposed to the wind.

"This is ridiculous, John. You need to get indoors."

"Agreed," John says, grinning. "Only thing is, I can't be bothered to go back all the way. I'm slumped. We should find a place to stay overnight. Warm up a bit."

"Of course. We can probably find accommodation here at the Marina, but it's immensely boring. Let's get a cab and go back to the pier. There's surely an abundance of rooms in the vicinity."

"Um, I think it's cheaper around here." John is acting shifty. "Back there, we'd probably have to sell your tie pins to get a room."

Sherlock frowns. "You know I don't wear a tie. You're welcome to sell them any day, though Brighton isn't known to be that expensive."

John's already picked up his phone, increasing Sherlock's suspicions.

"John, really, you needn't worry about the cost-"

John holds up a finger. "Yes, hello!" He half turns away from Sherlock, pressing the phone to his ear and blocking the other with his hand to shut out the sound of the storm. He walks away for a bit, and Sherlock can't make out what he says, until he raises his voice.

"Of course I want a bloody-" John exclaims, then instantly reins himself in. "Sorry! Yes, I want the sea view. We're here to see the sea." He giggles, mouthing ' _it rhymes_ ' to Sherlock. "Sorry? Ah, um, right, right. No. No, that's not a problem. It's fine. It's all fine. Yeah. Right. Ta... Oh, wait! We need transport. Wonderful! Um, we're at... where are we Sherlock?"

"Where are we?" Sherlock scoffs. John isn't stupid, and not really that drunk anymore. Sherlock's earlier suspicion has now turned into downright certainty, because John apparently has something up his sleeve. "We're at the Marina, beneath the cliffs and the A259."

John repeats what Sherlock just said, into the phone.

After the accommodation and pick up point is settled, they seek shelter behind the restaurants and shopping malls. They wait for their ride in the boring residential area surrounding the inner harbour, where giant luxury boats are shielded from the storm.

Within ten minutes, they're in the back of a warm car, picked up by the manager of Bennet's Bed & Breakfast.

Sherlock quickly searches the internet for the website while they're driven to the location.  
It's a small family run business in a more residential area high up on the cliff behind the Marina, offering seven rooms, all decorated in different colour schemes and themes. There's even a room, listed as the Ibiza Suite, featuring garish purple, pink and teal neon accents. If John thinks Sherlock will stand for some 80's themed, hallucinogenic fixtures while he tries to sleep, he has another think coming. 

The car stops in front of a house at the end of a street, which boasts alternating beige and brown brickwork. John exits the car and Sherlock follows.

It's the southernmost street of the cliff, and the houses along it have their gardens extending on the southern slope running down towards the A259 and the cliff edge beyond. There's a wide expanse of fields and shrubbery on the east side of the building. It looks a bit small to offer seven rooms, but Sherlock knows that appearances are deceiving.

The manager follows them to the entrance, where a crooked yucca plant is barely withstanding the prevailing coastal winds. She excuses herself as a young male innkeeper greets them at the desk. He has enough similar features to be her son. Sherlock suspects he might be responsible for the existence of the Ibiza Suite. It wouldn't surprise him if some of _Mr Martain_ 's miniature sailors had found a home there.

John signs them in and laughs rather oddly at something the young man says. He grabs the key and is quick down the stairs. Sherlock comes after, feeling his sore muscles ache with every step on the way down. Their room is located on the souterrain floor of an extension at the back of the building, facing the garden and the sea.

The door to the room at the end of the hallway is open, but Sherlock stops on the threshold. He should have figured; it's not really surprising, but he hadn't really imagined it this way. So, this is what John's been paving the way for during the whole day.

One bed.

They have certainly shared a bed before, but not like this. Not after a day of intense silences, coupled with intimate relaxation. Not when Sherlock's been experimenting with John's reactions to certain stimuli. Not when John's evidently prepared himself for _something_ with liquid courage.

There's a temptation, surely. And he's not really against giving in to it. The only problem is what comes after... if there is an after. It's possibly best to feign ignorance.

John can be pushy when it comes to keeping Sherlock fed, watered and rested, but he's yet to see John persist when it comes to courting. He's never seen him fight for any of his short-lived relationships, simply accepting the breakups without fuss.

It was easy enough to tell him off that first night at Angelo's. John had instantly retreated, been right on the verge of asking for forgiveness for his misstep. Shouldn't be hard to brush him off if he dares to make a move.

Sherlock steps into the room.


	3. Chapter 3

*

John is content with the young innkeeper's recommendation. Their room is en suite, small but well-furnished considering the size, the colour scheme slate greys and teal. A king-sized pillow-top bed is squeezed in, along with two bedside tables. The bed has a padded headboard, complete with an upholstered long bench situated at the foot of the bed. There's even two bathrobes and two sets of slippers near the bathroom.

John sits down on the bench to strip himself of his jeans. The lower part of them are still moist from being soaked in seawater, clinging to his calves. 

The room opens up towards the garden with a sliding glass door, now covered by a sheer white curtain, with heavier slate grey curtains on the side. Sherlock sits down in the solitary swivelling lounge chair placed in front of them. John can't help but notice how the teal velvet fabric of the chair compliments his dark blue shirt, as well as the man himself, of course. Sherlock relieves himself of his fine wool trousers, and then brings them to the bathroom to rinse out the saltwater.

John can't be bothered. He's chilled to the bone from walking in the stormy weather. He hangs his jeans over the radiator to make them dry faster. 

There's a coffee machine and a kettle on a credenza that looks suspiciously like it came from IKEA, up against one of the walls. John is happy to find the room is equipped with a mini bar as well, his liquid courage having dissipated greatly. His mind is filled by a nervous energy. He wants to quash that, just a little, so he pours some whiskey for them both.

Sherlock returns with his trousers and a towel. He lays the towel flat on top of the bed, then spreads the trousers evenly over the towel and rolls it all up tightly, using his right forearm to press down.

"What are you doing?" asks John, feeling the whiskey burn nicely, warming him up from the inside.

"It will express water from the fabric. Can't hang them if they're too wet; they might lose their shape."

"I suppose that would be a disaster," John says, jokingly.

Sherlock glares at him. "Exactly." He's not amused. John hands him the whiskey tumbler as a peace offering, and Sherlock hesitantly accepts it.

John turns to the glass door, pulling aside the curtains to reveal nothing but the narrow back end of an overgrown garden. The wind is whipping the high bamboo-like stems of a hedge grown wild, and the rain has finally started to fall.

"Bastards! There's no way I can see the sea from here. Maybe you can, you tall git."

Sherlock is busy draping the trouser legs over the long bench, then pushing it within a safe distance from the radiator. John needs to pour himself a second drink, but Sherlock declines a refill.

"Aaah! I'm getting too old for these all-nighters," John groans and stretches, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I mean, it's not much trouble going on little sleep if there's a case, but these stops and starts, naps and _strolling_ are wearing me out."

Sherlock chuckles low. He's reclined in the lounge chair, bare legs crossed elegantly, still sipping his drink. "You're the one who wanted to walk all the way to the Marina, for whatever reason."

"Yeah, that became a little bit of an adventure considering the stormy weather, huh? 

"Indeed."

John puts his glass on the bedside table and lies down, stretching out. "I feel like I need another nap."

"Sleep then," Sherlock murmurs.

"Won't that make it worse?" He yawns and rests his eyes for a moment. "It's like jet lag--you need to stay awake until it's proper bedtime."

"Hm," says Sherlock.

John opens his eyes again, indulging the view of silky shirt stretched tight, and bare skin resting against velvet. Sherlock's tapping away on his phone. A little slower than usual, since he's using his left hand. "Are you pestering Molly again?"

When Sherlock only quirks his mouth in response, John shakes his head, then picks up his tumbler and knocks back the last of his drink. "Let the woman do her work in peace!" he admonishes, throwing himself back against the pillows and pulling the duvet up to his chin.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 

John sighs loudly, massaging his brow. "Molly, I mean Molly."

"Sleep, John."

As it happens, John does within minutes.

John can taste salt on his skin. His hair has a stiffness to it, like hairspray. Right, the storm, which is still raging, raindrops pattering hard against the sliding glass door. He stretches and finds that Sherlock has joined him, lying with his back to John. Sherlock turns his head, opening an eye.

"I'm gonna have a shower," says John. "You need the bathroom?"

Sherlock merely groans and turns back, burying his face in the pillow.

John almost stumbles into the shower, feeling a stiffness setting in. He should've been stretching after such a workout. The steamy shower helps a bit, though. 

He wraps himself up in the towel, then proceeds to rinse up his pants and socks in the basin, just as the bathroom door opens and Sherlock barges past him and straight into the shower. "Oi! Is your hand covered?"

Sherlock sticks out his right hand from behind the shower curtain, one of his ziplock evidence bags covering the bandage. He then sticks out his other hand to dump his pants on the floor, before turning the water on.

John sighs, long-suffering, picks them up and plunks them in the basin with the rest. "Want me to rinse your socks, too?"

"Fine."

John huffs. "' _Yes please, thank you, John._ '" He doesn't get an answer, but still goes to find Sherlock's socks.

Sherlock is quick, done before John's finished up the washing. He steps out of the shower, with the towel around his hips, pulling the ziplock bag off his injured hand, only to stop by the gilt mirror to inspect his hair. He frowns, adjusts some curls, stretches his neck to see better. Then he grabs the frame and angles the mirror to get a better look, while he attempts to fix the hair on the back of his head. Clearly, it doesn't work as well as he'd like it. He drops the mirror carelessly in frustration, making it swing precariously from its hook. "Bloody useless hand."

"It will get better with rest."

Sherlock huffs, scratching the stubble with his left hand. 

John finds his courage. "You need a shave."

"Evidently." Sherlock glares at his hand, attempting to make a grip although the bandage is restricting the movement, but even such minuscule movement clearly pains him.

"Just a mo." John pops out to the room and returns with the backpack. He ruffles around in it a bit, before he finds what he's looking for. "Here," he says, lining up the shaving supplies beside the basin.

Sherlock holds up his injured hand, with a face that says John is an idiot if he thinks Sherlock can use it to hold a razor.

"Yeah, I know. You will _not_ do the shaving yourself. Doctor's orders." John winks.

Sherlock frowns.

"Let me give you a shave," John offers.

Sherlock looks at the razor kit, the frown deepening. " _That_ is not on par with what my skin is used to."

"Well, I've used inferior equipment to do operations and succeeded." John shakes the shaving gel bottle. "Let's get rid of the couch-sulking beard, shall we?"

Sherlock sighs, but seems to be amused. "Good riddance," he mutters, giving the stubble a final scratch.

"Chin up."

Sherlock complies. "Could be dangerous," he murmurs as John places a dollop of gel in his palm and starts to lather it up.

"I won't nick you, promise."

"You bought a razor kit and shaving gel at Tesco," Sherlock states. "You didn't buy this at the pharmacy. Is there toothpaste and toothbrushes in the backpack as well?"

Of course there is, but John's reluctant to admit it. He slathers the foam along Sherlock's jawline.

"You were only supposed to buy us lunch." Sherlock studies him with narrowed eyes. "What made you pick up all this stuff? Were you planning to offer me a shave even before I hurt my hand?"

John purses his lips. "Figured you'd want to get rid of the stubble, get out of the depressed look."

Sherlock tilts his head, considering. "Ah, interesting. Very generous of you. Though we didn't actually say, we didn't plan to stay the night. Or, at least I didn't."

"Careful," John says firmly as he manoeuvres Sherlock's head back into place and puts the razor to his cheek. With a smooth and precise sweep, he lets the blade glide through the lather.

"There's no hint of tremor in your hand," Sherlock observes. "Your hands are only this steady in the face of danger."

John swallows and clears his throat. "She was a remarkable woman. And rather good-looking."

Sherlock blinks at the sudden change of topic. "Who?"

"Irene Adler."

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. John dabs away an abundance of lather to see the direction of the hair growth. Then he's lightly pressing a finger to Sherlock's cheek to pull the skin tight for the blade to run smoothly with the grain. "You don't agree?"

Sherlock's face is a study in boredom, to the point of not even bothering to keep his eyes open. He sighs. "Women are your department, John. I'll trust your word regarding her female qualities."

"You know," John continues his prodding, because he can't leave it alone. "I thought you despised her at the end, knowing she worked with Moriarty and all that." He carefully lets the razor follow the curve of Sherlock's jaw bone. " _The Woman_."

"Formidable opponent, executing a cunning, yet basic scheme," Sherlock says, tightly.

"Huh. It's a shame she's gone," John says, then remembers to add, "To the witness protection thingy."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and glances at John. "You think so?"

"No, you thought so. I could tell." He works his way over Sherlock's cheek with light strokes.

"I have no view on the matter," he mutters, moving his jaw as little as possible.

"Yes, you have," John insists. "You liked her."

"Why are we talking about this?" Sherlock's annoyance is evident. He regards John with narrowed eyes.

"I am trying," says John, making a long, slow sweep over the area near Sherlock's ear, "to have a perfectly normal conversation with my best friend."

"Oh, please don't." Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes so hard he nearly throws his head back.

John instantly pulls the razor away from Sherlock's face. "Keep still!" he warns, then steadies the back of Sherlock's head, correcting his posture, before he starts anew.

"Sherlock." John clears his throat again, purses his lips. "Against absolutely no opposition whatsoever, I am your closest friend." He nudges Sherlock's brow to tilt his head back, and continues to shave beneath his jaw.

Sherlock is silent, keeping his chin up, but his Adam's apple bobs.

John tries to imbue his voice with kindness as he asks the long-standing question: "Why do you need to be alone?"

Sherlock's eyelashes flutter. "I suspect you're referring to romantic entanglement. I've already told you," he says, a bit tetchy.

"Yeah, married to your work," John agrees. "Let me see the other side."

Sherlock tilts his head. "So that's what this is about? You're literally holding a blade to my throat while trying to force me to make some kind of statement about women in general, under the guise of speaking about Irene Adler."

"No." John shakes his head, licking his lips, trying to deny that Sherlock is spot on in his assessment of the situation. "That's not... I don't... it's not like that!"

"No?" Sherlock angles his head away from John and gives him a devious smirk. "Well then correct me, Doctor."

John's not sure if Sherlock is trying to be suggestive, or if he's just being an arsehole. Either way, John's cheeks are suddenly heated, and he can't really blame the whiskey from three hours ago. He gently positions Sherlock's head again and tips his face upwards, then stretches out the supple skin beneath his chin. He both sees and feels the vibration of Sherlock's voice as he says, "I'm starting to believe it is ' _like that_ '."

There's no use trying to deny anything that's caught Sherlock's attention.

"It seems I need to spell it out for you; I've never had a girlfriend. There you have it," Sherlock says between gritted teeth, then adds, "It is an area in which I lack your ample experience."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" John pauses his ministrations, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, trying to ignore the bait. 

But, somehow it's easier to deviate into meaningless banter than to continue prodding for information about Sherlock's sexuality and lack of relationships. The razor is clogged, so he rinses the blade, letting some of his frustration pour out by casting unfair blame. 

"Living with you hasn't really helped. How many of my dates have you driven off?" He resumes the shaving, making sure his aggravation doesn't translate to his hands and fingers, gingerly working away over Sherlock's skin. "There wouldn't be so bloody many of them if I ever had enough time to get to know them."

This apparently amuses Sherlock, as he sniggers. "Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better."

"Oi! What's up with this sudden moralising over my dating life?"

"It has nothing whatsoever to do with morals."

"I'm not following."

"That's not unusual."

"Hey! Do you want to go out in public with half a beard?" John threatens, backing away from Sherlock's half-shaved face.

Sherlock looks at him, chuckling. "Now that would be an interesting metaphor."

"I'm not talking about some bloody metaphors!"

"Then, kindly, get to the point."

"It's just, as your friend, as someone who... sometimes worries about you..." John pauses, licks his lips. "You are a living, breathing man," he starts over, not sure how to proceed.

Sherlock huffs. "I hope so."

"I mean, you must have..."

"Have _what?_ " Sherlock demands.

John feels awkward, under Sherlock's scrutiny. He carries on with his delicate work, trying to seem indifferent. "You know..."

Sherlock arches a brow. "No."

John swallows. "Um, urges?"

"Dear Lord!" Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Fetch me my cigarettes, John, I have a sudden _urge_ to smoke."

*

John fetches the cigarette pack without fuss. "You're not allowed to smoke indoors," he says when he returns to the bathroom, still placing a fag between Sherlock's lips. He strikes the lighter, puts the flame to the end, and Sherlock sucks until it smoulders.

The first drag since they stepped onto the train in East Croydon is marvellous, and just what he needs to handle this increasingly messy situation. He closes his eyes briefly, indulging in the rush of nicotine. He then blows out the smoke towards the ceiling, avoiding John's face, which is very close to his own.

John's inspecting his work so far, frowning a bit. He brings out the shaving gel bottle again and proceeds to apply some more. "Relax your jaw." He takes a hold of Sherlock's chin to counteract the razor's motion, shaving the divot between lower lip and chin. "What I was trying to say..." He hesitates, licks his lips, starts again. "When Irene faked her death, you seemed affected. And then, after everything, when she disappeared for good, you kept her phone."

"And you didn't deny me keeping it when I said _please_ ," Sherlock remarks.

"Huh. Right." John makes the razor gently follow the curve of his upper lip and Sherlock needs to suppress a shudder. "Anyway, as I told Mycroft--"

"That meddling bastard," Sherlock grouses.

John leaves off, sighing. "No, no, he wasn't prying, he simply suggested she'd mattered to you. And I told him I'm not sure you feel things that way, but the way you reacted to Irene... well... "

Sherlock's had enough of John's tip-toeing around this topic. "You want to keep talking about Irene Adler? Well then, I have some important conclusions to share." He takes a deep drag on the cigarette and then lets the words surge out of his mouth, along with the smoke. "One, I know for a fact that Irene Adler is exclusively attracted to women, never mind the performances she puts up in her line of work. She and I are very similar; it was a bit like looking into a mirror, a form of validation. She could read people in a way I can't. But she read them all the same, with her own methods of deduction. I felt a kinship, and I think she felt the same."

He takes a breath. "Two--"

"How do you know?" John cuts in with a demanding tone. "Did she tell you?"

Sherlock ignores the interruption. " _Two_ , I made a mistake. I took her pulse and was convinced that she was in over her head. I thought I'd seen through her. But, as you well know, as a doctor, an elevated pulse isn't merely indicative of attraction. It could be attraction, but it could also be an adrenaline response to danger, or non-sexual excitement over facing an opponent and feeling that victory is within reach."

"Of course," says John, putting away the razor. 

"What I mistook for attraction--sexual arousal--was arousal from the excitement of finding an intellectual match, which I can sympathise with. It was the thrill of testing me, trying to deduce what I like, to see if she could have a hold on me for future needs. She obviously couldn't, but I eventually did her a favour, without any more of her fruitless seduction attempts. I took her pulse a second time; it was equally elevated and her pupils dilated. Though it wasn't from desire, merely an adrenaline rush from the excitement of playing the Holmes brothers, and then the fear of losing the game. Which I mistakenly attributed to an infatuation with me." He pauses for another drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke pour out through his nostrils as he speaks. "I must admit that it wasn't a significant mistake, as my faulty conclusion let me deduce her password anyway."

"Modest as ever."

"Her partner, Kate, who we met in Belgravia, later told me that Irene is fond of Scrabble and silly word games."

John snorts. "Don't tell me she'd have tea and biscuits while solving innocent crosswords with Mrs Hudson." He runs hot water to dampen a towel.

"That's not what I'm saying, John," Sherlock says patiently. "My point is, that my assumption, my disregard of what she said about herself at Battersea--" He notices John gaping and adds, before he has the capacity to form words, "Yes I was there, and yes, I heard your conversation. Now, the point is, that I came to the wrong conclusion. I thought she'd let her heart rule her head, but it eventually transpired that her one mistake was to be herself. Turned out Molly Hooper was right: 'We all do silly things', and Irene Adler was no exception. She chose a simple, silly wordplay when constructing her phone password, believing her true silly self was disparate enough from her persona of clever and naughty misbehaviour. She wasn't lying, as I assumed, though clearly trying to manipulate you, when she told you she was gay. I was wrong; it wasn't Irene who was ' _Sherlocked_ ' as her password said-- she wasn't ' _locked_ ' on me. It was merely her phone that was locked _from me_."

John huffs, one hand resting on the side of Sherlock's neck, the thumb gently nudging his jaw to adjust the angle of his face. He dabs the warm towel all over Sherlock's cheeks and jaw to get rid of any remaining strands of lather. Sherlock manages to get another drag before continuing. "And finally, three, when it came to Irene, I made a mistake, relying on the most common assumption, when I concluded that the rapid beat of her pulse must have been a sign of attraction. But, an increased heart rate can be indicative of either anger, attraction, excitement or fear. So, tell me John." He flicks off some ash into the basin, before placing his left hand on top of John's on his neck. "Which is this a sign of?"

John's eyes flick to their hands. His thumb is resting right over Sherlock's carotid artery. John blinks as if he wasn't aware he'd put it there.

Sherlock slides his hand across John's, positioning thumb above thumb. He presses down lightly, so that John can feel the jumping of the artery. "With all your medical prowess, can you tell the difference with only one point of data, from merely a touch?" 

John instantly withdraws his hand as if burned, eyes wide. Sherlock stubs out his wilting cigarette against the porcelain of the basin. He then reaches out, putting his fingers to the mirroring pulse point of John's neck. "And what kind of arousal is this?"

John is quiet, but doesn't break eye contact. 

"What's the reason for your increased heart rate right now? I heard what you said at Battersea: ' _not actually gay_ '. Should I disregard it? Am I to make a wrongful assumption? Tell me, John. You know I don't like to make guesses."

John blinks and blinks, breath ragged. He reaches out, slowly placing two fingertips on Sherlock's pulse point. At first a featherlight touch, then applied pressure, his fingers dancing with the rhythm of Sherlock's beating heart. He can't be missing Sherlock's deep, heavy breathing.

John swallows, his eyes drop to Sherlock's mouth. He licks his lips, tilts his head.

There's a bang on the door.

"Gentlemen, may I remind you, no smoking!"

"Oh, shit!" says John, stumbling out from the bathroom in a rush, struggling to unlock the glass door to the garden. The manager's voice continues from the other side of the door to the hallway.

"I'm terribly sorry to disregard the Do Not Disturb sign, but the smoke is spreading to other guest rooms. One more complaint, and you'll be fined and asked to leave."

"Then fix some decent ventilation for Christ's sake!" mutters Sherlock.

"Sorry again, but these are the house rules, which you agreed upon when checking in," she points out. "Have a good evening." Her steps recede down the hallway.

John finally manages to slide the glass door open. The cold sea breeze and the constant sound of crashing waves fill the room. It's still raining, but the storm has subsided.

Sherlock grabs the bathrobe from it's hook, throws it on, steps barefoot into his shoes and stomps back to the bathroom to fetch his pack of cigarettes. He pointedly puts a fag in his mouth, before he steps out into the gloomy garden, with the lighter in hand brandished like a weapon.

*

Sherlock returns a half hour later, when it's become fully dark outside. He's pissing wet in his bathrobe and towel, looking for all the world like a drowned cat. His curls are matted to this head, his skin shiny and a bit feverish. John hopes the nutter hadn't caught a cold while he was polluting his lungs. 

They don't talk about anything that happened in the bathroom. John feigns interest in his phone while Sherlock dresses in his now mostly dry trousers. He must be cold from being out in the rain. He catches a glimpse of Sherlock shivering and John wishes he could warm him up beneath the covers. At the same time, he dreads the coming night, having to share a bed. John has no one to blame but himself; he put them in this awkward position, after all.

Sherlock is dressed and grabs his jacket from the coat rack behind the door. He exits without a word, leaving his Belstaff behind. John hopes he doesn't go far in the dark. He doesn't want to imagine Sherlock alone on the quiet countryside.

When John's stomach loudly informs him it's time to eat again, he ventures out of the room. He finds Sherlock sitting in the lobby, all warmed up in front of the open fireplace, a glass of brandy in hand. Only now it occurs to John that Sherlock had managed to tie his shoes one handed--not elegantly, but sufficiently. It's plain as day that Sherlock doesn't want his care or help anymore. He undoubtedly loathes the dependency.

John sits down in the other chair. It reminds him of home--of long companionable silences in front of the fire. Now, however, they're back to the distancing silence once again. John feels like he's ruined it all.

They both stare into the dancing flames, quiet, until John's stomach makes itself known again, so loud that Sherlock's gaze drifts from the fire. 

"Dinner?" John dares to ask, fully expecting a scathing dismissal.

"Ah, right," says Sherlock, in a neutral tone. "Must feed you up." To John's relief, he stands up. "Let's go and have a look at the menu, then."

A somewhat tense dinner follows. 

They speak, but only about the food and the wine. The, rather lovely, young innkeeper serves as a waiter too. There's no grounds for any complaint; he's professional and polite. But every little glance or smile he lets slip tells John that this, obviously queer, young man sees a couple on a romantic seaside retreat. John's heart sinks. Because that is so close to what he hoped for, when he bought the bloody champagne and asked the cashier at Tesco for advice on any small scale Bed & Breakfast, out of town but still close to the sea. He saved the number in his phone, just in case things would develop that way. But he was scared and drank too much, looking for an excuse to stay the night, and to dare to book that room. When he'd sobered up he found the courage to ask, to prod around for any hint of interest in romance. Only, he pushed things too far, and now Sherlock is barely speaking to him.

The young man brings in the dessert, then quickly returns with a new candle for their table, as the other has burnt down and snuffed itself out.

Sherlock stares at it, sneering. He then blows it out with unnecessary force. "I know what you're doing, John. You think I haven't noticed?" His tone is a mix of disappointment and ire. "The world's most observant man, and you think I'll miss the gigantic clue of you drinking yourself tipsy in the afternoon and booking a room with one bed?"

"Why haven't you turned me down then?" John counters, a sudden anger simmering just below the surface. "Hmm? Why haven't you said, ' _John, stop prying, I'm not interested._ '? You're not afraid of having your say, so what's stopping you from telling me off?"

"You haven't bloody asked me yet!" Sherlock nearly shouts. "You're circling the question." He stands and throws his cloth napkin on the table. "Actually, I'm not even sure that _you_ know what you're asking for."

Sherlock leaves.

Annoyingly, he is right, as always.

John proceeds to eats his dessert, noting Sherlock's hurried steps go down, and later coming back up the stairs, and the flurry of his coat passing in the hallway on the way out. This is the third time since they arrived here that Sherlock has left to escape his company. John doesn't want to sit alone in their empty room. If he knows Sherlock--and he does, he really does--he will stay out for at least a couple of hours. Even if there's no London streets to roam, he will make his way through the quiet seaside area. Alone, with only the sound of the sea and the traffic of the A259.

John moves to the lobby and the fireplace. He orders a brandy.

Sherlock comes back in the middle of the night. He climbs into bed beside John, smelling of tobacco and the sea. He notices John's awake, not that he ever really was sleeping in Sherlock's absence. 

"Sleep," Sherlock says quietly. "I've informed the innkeepers we're leaving tomorrow," he adds, and turns his back to John's.

John feels like crying. "I'm bloody ruining this, aren't I?" he rasps, his heart in his throat.

"We're having a conversation," Sherlock says slowly, neutral.

Tears are prickling John's eyes. "Are we?"

"Yes."

"Oh, God!" The relief is imminent. John doesn't know what this means, but it's- it's _something_. The guilt is still there, though. Stronger in the middle of the night after a few too many brandies. "I've overstepped," he manages, his voice quavering. "I'm pushing you for things you're not ready to share, while all I really want is to not be left out. That's what's important to me." He sniffs and wipes at his eyes. "The rest is irrelevant."

After a tense silence, Sherlock whispers, "We're figuring things out."

"And you don't mind?"

"I don't mind."

This soothes John. When he's finally drifting off to sleep, he becomes aware of a touch to his calf. He presumes it's a mistake, Sherlock merely turning in bed. Then, he senses a distinct push, Sherlock pressing the sole of his foot back against John's leg. The foot glides, the heel massaging his calf muscle. Then, it comes to rest, the bulge of the muscle fitting perfectly in the concave arch, still pressing. Nothing more. They fall asleep like that.

One point of contact.

Sherlock sleeps in. John would rather like to as well, but they're still back to back, and he doesn't want to push his luck by giving in to the longing to be near.

On the way to the small dining room, the young innkeeper calls for John's attention. He apologises for the lack of sea view, assuring him there really was a view at the start of the season. He says the Fleeceflower has grown too high, too fast during the summer, blocking the view from their room.

"I will speak with the manager and she will talk to the gardener." The young man smiles, with a hint of nervousness. Sherlock must have had a word with him during the night. It amuses John, and warms his heart.

"I hope you at least could appreciate the luxurious mattress. We upgraded it just before the start of the season."

This time John thinks the young man is close to being indiscreet, but he realises that it's probably all in his own mind.

Sherlock is not in the room when John returns from breakfast.

*

John finds him in the garden.

The sloping lawn is partly overgrown by a two meter high, dense hedge, which obscures the view from their room. The sun illuminates clusters of thousands of delicate, creamy-white flowers found throughout the foliage. It literally hums with bees. The bamboo-like stems with heart-shaped leaves arch a bit, almost creating a tunnel, adorned with fluffy spikes of flower clusters. Sherlock steps into the narrow pathway. It must be a shortcut to the cliffs, which Sherlock missed last night when he was making circles in the garden as dusk was falling, smoking one cigarette after the other.

John follows. Inside the thicket, in the shadow, shielded from the world, the low hum nearly overrides the constant soughing of the sea. The sun falls in between leaves, creating variations of green. The bees work over the tiny blossoms, disturbing minimal petals which fall down like snowflakes.

"Even though we were cheated of the sea view, because of this bloody shrubbery, the bees seem to like it enough," says John, keeping his distance.

"That's an understatement." Sherlock smiles. " _Fallopia japonica_ \--it blooms late in the season, giving the honey bees plenty of nectar before hibernation."

Sherlock leans into the foliage, close to the bees, to study their work. They're busy now, before the cold autumn weather hits, not bothered by a nosey human. They're buzzing all around his head, the ebb and flow of low vibrations, like the gradual crescendo of strings from Philip Glass' _Mishima_. Not like the frantic pace of Korsakov's _Flight of the Bumblebee_ , but more of a journey that must be taken in order to survive - steady, constant, multidirectional, like Sherlock himself. And when night falls, like in the closing suite of _Mishima_ with a susurration of cellos, everything slows, only to return anew with the dawn. Such is the cycle of life. He closes his eyes to hear the bees more clearly, rubbing the shell in his pocket. He'd thought it would disintegrate with all the fiddling he did last night after dinner. He'd walked in the dark, through fields and shrubbery on the slope above the cliff's edge, trying to clear his head. He mulled over different future scenarios of development in his relationship with John, as he watched the passing car lights of the A259 below, and the Marina glimmering in the darkness beyond.

The shell only helped to a degree; he'd ended up smoking all that was left in his cigarette pack after all.

John clears his throat. "You know, I've been thinking about what you said yesterday." He pauses, seemingly reluctant to broach the subject in broad daylight. "Like in science--isn't it more often 'and' instead of either/or? A combination? I think it's a combination."

"You'll have to be a bit more specific, John," Sherlock says patiently, still bee-watching. At this point he's disinclined to help. He needs to hear whatever John has to say in his own words, to be able to make a rational decision about this mess.

"I think it's everything. It's _everything_ , Sherlock," John says with a sudden fervour.

Sherlock snaps his head around, foregoing the bees' ministrations. " _What_ is?"

"Excitement and fear. Anger and arousal. Like you said, it could be either. But I think it's everything. _Everything_."

Sherlock believes that is the most truthful observation John has ever shared about himself.

"You give me everything I need, and I want to give you all I have." John is achingly sincere. 

It's overwhelming and still annoyingly unspecific. Sherlock can't help but long for the easy intimacy they shared in the night: one point of contact, grounding them. Can't help inviting more. "You did a good job." He smiles a little.

John's perplexed. "Like, did my homework? Learned my lesson about hormonal impact?"

Sherlock chuckles, then runs his finger slowly down his own cheek. "Still smooth."

"Oh, really?" John quickly catches on. He's not oblivious, but he is purposeful in being disarmingly flirty. "Is that so?"

Sherlock is not as fluent as John in this sort of language. "You could feel it for yourself," he says, carefully.

John steps closer, hesitating. Sherlock unwinds his scarf, lets it hang loosely over his shoulders. Waiting, holding his breath.

John reaches out, touches his jaw. It's featherlight and Sherlock breathes again, a rush of air, a little shaky, and he closes his eyes for a moment, feeling John's fingers caress his cheek. It's like electricity; more intense than when John touched him repeatedly during the shaving procedure. Because this time, John's touch was openly invited, anticipated. 

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, John is nearer still, so it takes no effort at all to tilt his head down to meet him.

The kiss is slow and exquisite. The outer world fades away and Sherlock goes weak in the knees at the soft press of lips. He wants to luxuriate in the utter perfection, but it's all too vulnerable, too uncertain. When John takes his hand, entwining their fingers, Sherlock needs to step away. "Careful, John."

"What's wrong?" John stops touching him immediately and takes a step back. "God, Sherlock, sorry. What did I do wrong?"

John's worry is heart-warming, but Sherlock's doubt is unbearable; he needs to spit it out, to explain why nothing is ever certain. "Two components are necessary to experience an emotion--physiological arousal and a label for it. As I told you yesterday, physiological states are ambiguous since there are numerous types of arousal. You conceded it. You need to understand that your emotional experience is malleable, since it partly depends on your interpretation of the situation which caused the physiological arousal."

"That's a whole lot of crap." John's not impressed. "Honestly, Sherlock. We're kissing."

"A kiss is merely an action, not a reaction. I could kiss anyone for a case."

John snorts. "Yeah, I can imagine that. But that isn't what this is." He cups Sherlock's face with his left hand. "I'm afraid too," he says gently. "But let's see what we've got, hmm? Let me tell you what I observe about you." John brushes his thumb across Sherlock's heated cheek. "Firstly, I can see that you're flushed, which would indicate sexual arousal."

This is cheating; John touches what he observes, distracting him. He lets his fingertips follow the flush, trailing down along Sherlock's neck, eliciting a shudder. Then he changes the angle of his finger, making the edge of his nail slowly make an imprint on it's way downward. All the way to Sherlock's collarbone, effectively stealing his focus.

John's warm fingers drift back up to his cheek, then to this mouth. "Swollen lips... " A fingertip barely breaching the opening of his lips, but the association is obvious, the reaction instant. "Increased blood flow."

Indeed, and the better part of it is in Sherlock's pants. He snorts derisively. "It's all due to the sympathetic nervous system responding to external stimuli," he sputters, while fighting the urge to close his eyes from the sensation. "And we've just kissed, so that's only to be expected."

"Your pupils are dilated even though it's quite sunny."

"That could be attributed to fear and anger as well."

"Or trust," John counters.

"Speaking of trust..." He steps away from John's touch. The phone buzzes in his coat pocket, but he ignores it. "Yesterday, at the pier, I subjected you to several stimuli: physical closeness and a dropped voice, followed by excitement and the rewarding feeling of accomplishment as well as the thrill of the chase ending with a perceived threat."

John is quiet, brow furrowed.

"The physical closeness, whispering in your ear, the target practise--it was all intentional to gauge your response," Sherlock offers, waiting for the inevitable disappointment, hurt and anger. "The chase was fake--there was never any pickpocket! I merely pointed you in a direction and watched your reaction, adding the lie about a knife to see how a threat would affect you."

"You," John says, holding back, but clearly exasperated, "-are a complete dickhead." And then there's that crooked smile. "Ah, Sherlock." John sighs, shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then looks up at him, smiling. "You're no different from any lover of mine."

Sherlock's eyes go wide. That is insulting, promising and worrying in equal measures.

"Yet you're different in every way," John adds. He comes closer, then leans in to tenderly kiss Sherlock's neck. "If I were to experiment on _you_... " he murmurs in Sherlock's ear. He leans away, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Yes?" Sherlock breathes, standing his ground. His phone buzzes again, and he's inclined to pick it up just to throw it deep into the shrubbery.

John smiles and sneaks his hands inside Sherlock's open coat, emboldened. "Then I'd say _this_ -" He grabs his arse with both hands, pulling him closer until their pelvises grind into each other. "- is a pretty universal response."

The onslaught of sensation makes it hard for Sherlock to get out a final protest. "Attributing one's arousal to an erroneous source can alter the emotional experience!" he says with clenched teeth, inanely fighting the quick build-up from their erections getting acquainted.

"I see your point. You want to be sure any arousal or feelings are genuine," says John, contemplating while kneading Sherlock's arse cheeks. "But we're not in danger now. God knows about Moriarty's next move, but there's no imminent threat here. Nothing to cause an adrenaline spike. We're not even in the public eye. We're secluded from view by this bloody shrub. No-one can hear us over the sound of the sea." He chuckles a little and shrugs. "Hell, we're not even deathly allergic to bee stings."

Then John suddenly drops to his knees, and Sherlock nearly falls backwards into the foliage. But John's hands are on the back of his thighs, keeping him balanced, stroking incredibly slowly up and down. He leans his forehead into Sherlock's hip. He stays there for a moment, and Sherlock doesn't dare to move.

John ghosts a kiss over Sherlock's bulge. Then presses in, openmouthed. Sherlock can't breathe. He can feel the heat and moisture of John's breath through the fabric of his trousers. John looks up again, their eyes meet. He licks his lips.

"See? Increased salivation," he says cheekily. "Even without Moriarty sneaking around in the bushes. Make of it what you will."

Sherlock can't help himself. He touches John's hair, then the moist corner of his mouth.

"Salivation is just an automatic response," he whispers, cupping John's cheek, thumb ghosting over his cheekbone, feeling the slight stubble under his fingers as he lets go.

"Oh, clammy hands, too" John smiles, winks and rises.

"Fight or flight hormones at play," Sherlock murmurs, a lame objection.

John grins. "Fight, flight or fuck--don't forget about fuck!"

"Or the state of 'play dead'," Sherlock adds, for accuracy.

"You, Sherlock Holmes, are very much not playing dead. You're just obnoxiously intent on denying yourself."

Sherlock swallows. There are moments when John displays a frustratingly high level of brightness. This is definitely one of them. John doesn't know his reasons, though. The ones that make this so incredibly difficult; Sherlock's unwillingness to enter into any kind of sexual association with John without a promise of something more. And if there is more, what it means when being threatened by Moriarty. If the live-in assistant, or ' _pet_ ' becomes something more--becomes a target.

"I agree, though," says John, conversationally. "Sexual response doesn't necessarily have anything to do with love and devotion."

Ah, there it is. Just when his wishes seemed to be within reach, John decides to reach the crux of the matter. Sherlock turns his attention to the bees once again, still gathering their nectar in peace, unaware of all that just transpired in their favourite spot. This is what Sherlock's been dreading, but expecting. The friends-with-benefits arrangement.

"What are you after, John?" Sherlock says, fiddling intensely with the broken shell in his pocket. "A night of passion? You know you can find that elsewhere." He braces for John's answer, pressing the sharpest edge of the shell into the palm of his clenched fist.

"I don't want it elsewhere."

"A shag against the wall after a case, then?" He snorts mirthlessly. "I doubt Mrs Hudson would be shocked; she's imagined you rogering me senseless since you moved in. She might even be glad of it."

"Stop."

But Sherlock doesn't, because he's not allowed to have this, has _never_ been allowed to have this. "We could always christen every surface in the flat, sell the footage from Mycroft's CCTV capture. That would earn you a pretty penny, I wager, enough to find a flat of your own where you can woo insipid females to your heart's content."

"You bloody berk!" John seethes.

"I'm the berk? I at least know my own feelings on the matter." He gets in John's face, almost nose to nose. "What do you have, John Watson? A duffle bag full of trauma, a psychological fear of commitment and a knee-jerk reaction to anything that doesn't fit the scope of your world!"

John's lips are thin and Sherlock can tell he wants to lash out at something. "I don't give a shit about what you thought you could prove about me with your experiment! I know where I stand, and you can't _prove_ it. At least I don't know of any way to prove it, other than just doing it."

John's being terribly imprecise again and Sherlock hates him a little for it.

"You whispered in my ear, you wanted my perspective on the case," John offers, a bit of desperation in his voice. "You wanted me to show off my shooting skills, you wanted me to be in on the hunt of a criminal, even if he never existed--you wanted me _with you_." John is vibrating with certainty. "That's what I want too! To be with you, to not be left out. I'm right with you, Sherlock, as ever. I'm not going to leave you unless you ask me to, and even then it might not take, unless you make a really good argument, because I'm a stubborn arsehole."

Sherlock's phone buzzes again, and this time, he's ready to actually throw it away. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at it. Two missed calls and one text. All from Lestrade. "John. It seems we have an arsonist to deal with."

"Arsonist?" John's agitation gives way to instant curiosity and interest.

Sherlock shows John the text message. "The garden shed at Miss Cushing's has burned during the night."

"So that's what we get, after being thrown out by Sally Donovan and escaping to the seaside." John grins despite all the hurtful words Sherlock just threw at him. "We're missing out on all the fun." 

Sherlock grins too. He wants to kiss John again and bring him back to the crime scene, if only to giggle inappropriately.

They hear a sudden thump and the stems towards the garden starts to sway. "Bloody hell... feckin' weed," says a familiar voice. Then the young innkeeper steps into the pathway and startles as he sees them.

"Oh, um, sorry. And sorry about the view, gonna deal with it right now." He's carrying a pair of hedge shears.

"No worries!" says John, taking Sherlock's hand. They hurry past the young man and back into the garden.

"He really wants to make sure you know he's dealing with The Case of the Missing Sea View," John tells Sherlock under his breath.

Sherlock snorts.

"It was you, wasn't it?" asks John. "Telling him off?"

"I might have had a stern word with him."

"No ripping deduction, then?"

"I opted to spare him. He offered us to move one floor up, to the Ibiza Suite, with guaranteed sea view. I declined."

"Oh, he's eager to please." John looks back towards the swaying foliage. "And ready to trim down that overgrown hedge."

Sherlock stops in his tracks. "The gardening tools!" He fishes out his phone.

"What?"

"Brian James." He starts typing, awkwardly, with his left hand. "He had some gardening tools in his closet, with the fishing gear. A hand trowel and possibly hedge shears. Honestly, I didn't get to have a closer look, thanks to bloody Donovan. Can't believe I let it slip my mind. I'm texting Lestrade."

"Why would he have gardening tools in his closet and not in the shed?"

"To hide something, presumably. The ones in the shed hadn't been used in ages. If he's used his tools anywhere but in the garden, a soil analysis might tell me where. We'll see if there's enough mud on them. We'll pick up the gardening tools in Croydon, then head straight to Barts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration from this [fantastic art](https://tendalee.tumblr.com/post/627608139793088512/another-digital-drawing-of-johnlock-as-an) by [TendaLee](https://twitter.com/tendaleeart?s=20)
> 
> The rewriting of the greenhouse scene in The Abominable Bride made possible by the transcript created by [Ariane Devere](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/24894.html)
> 
> Sherlock’s bee symphony [string quartet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iLLB0elriL0)
> 
> Stanley Schachter’s [two-factor theory of emotion](http://psychology.iresearchnet.com/social-psychology/self/misattribution-of-arousal/)


	4. Chapter 4

*

Sherlock is back to the reverberating state he's usually in while on a case.

He's looking out the window, where the farmland and green, rolling hills are passing by. John notices he's fiddling with his shell again. Sherlock's elegantly crossed legs would look immaculate if it wasn't for the slight salt stains on the dark fabric. For all his efforts with rinsing and pressing, the salt had crept upwards in the fabric of the trouser leg, and now adorns his thighs, right above the knees. John has matching stains. They look worse, but they're not as noticeable, lower on the legs. Their shoes are marked by mud from their morning tryst. There will be a much needed shoe-shining and washing to do when they get back home.

"So, what are you thinking about the possible arsonist?" John asks, because he can see the gears are turning in Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock blinks, looks at John with a slight frown. "I'm not sure," he says, looking back out the window.

John's not sure that's completely true. He can recognise avoidance, and this has all the tells.

"Why would someone burn the shed?" John prompts, hoping to draw him out.

Sherlock blinks again, annoyed.

"For a number of reasons, but the first thing that comes to mind is to cover something up, erase the tracks." He flips the shell in his palm. "I didn't find anything worth covering up in the shed, save for the body, but he's been taken care of."

"Could there have been something hidden? Like a treasure under the floorboards?" John offers.

"The floor was concrete, admittedly with some significant cracks, but none wide enough to hide anything substantial. Only some weeds growing in." He quirks an eyebrow at John. "Maybe we should have dug it out? Hacked away at the floor to find this ' _treasure_ '?"

John sighs. "Yeah, I know it's stupid. Sorry for being slow."

"You're not slow. Remember, you are unfailing as a brilliant conductor of light," Sherlock says, matter-of-factly.

"Well, I don't really feel like it when you're just sitting there brooding and not letting me know anything about what's going on in your head."

"There's nothing to know, John. If you're worried about what happened this morning--just don't. No need to worry. You know what I'm like when I'm focused on a case." Sherlock taps his forehead. "It's the case, I promise. Nothing more. There's something I'm missing."

Sherlock has mumbled that last sentence repeatedly since the train left Brighton. This time, he picks up his phone. "I've looked through these a dozen times since we left Brian's flat." Sherlock hands his phone over to John. "I took some photos in the loo, after Donovan burst in. Please, tell me what you see. Sadly, it's not good quality. The lightbulb was terribly weak, and the phone's flashlight was too sharp, only blurring things."

John scrolls through the pictures. Enough cleaning products to conceal a murder, a lone silverfish in the shower, dirty laundry in a pile.

"There was no time to go through anything properly," Sherlock complains. "I just snapped pictures as fast as I could."

"Yeah, I can see that." John tries to zoom in on an interesting photo. In a dark corner, on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet, there seems to be several medicine boxes of the same type and pink label. "You don't have any better pictures than this of the bathroom cabinet, do you?" He flips the phone to show Sherlock.

"Sorry, no."

"Can you read the label?" John hands over the phone. "I can't."

Sherlock squints. He then puts the phone down on the narrow table between them and starts to ruffle around in his coat pockets. "John," he says with reluctance. "I'm in need of some assistance."

John helps dig out the magnifying glass from Sherlock's inner coat pocket. He leans in closer than strictly necessary, just to get a whiff of him. He gives Sherlock a smug smile.

"Oh, please!" Sherlock rolls his eyes, clearly not in the mood. He turns up the light of the screen to the max, then leans over the phone and squints again.

"The first letter is p, that's for sure. _Pemete_ , perhaps? No, those might be separate letters. I believe it says _Pernete_."

"Parnate!" John is sure, given the pink lettering. "That's an MAOI."

"Come again?"

"Monoamine oxidase inhibitor," John explains. "It's an older, very effective antidepressant where phobic symptoms are present, or where other antidepressants have failed. A GP would only prescribe it with the guidance of a specialist."

"Ah. And Brian seems to have had loads of them."

Something is niggling at John's brain about the drug. "They're known to potentially have severe dietary interactions, unless you keep a controlled diet."

"What kind of interactions are we talking about?"

"Well, the medication affects the levels of tyramine in your body, which regulates blood pressure. In a worst-case scenario, the tyramine is increased to a dangerous level, which can lead to hypertensive emergency, meaning the blood-pressure is so high, it can cause organ damage. Without immediate intensive care treatment, it can lead to brain swelling, heart muscle damage and swelling of lung tissue. That's why it's contraindicated in patients with cardiovascular disease or hyperthyroidism. In short, without treatment--death."

"Oh."

"We should check with his prescriber as to why he was put on them, and if there's been any issues."

"I'll text Lestrade."

John is reminded of something. "There's one more thing."

Sherlock keeps texting. "Yes?"

"When Miss Cushing retrieved the letters from the cupboard under the stairs, I happened to see there were rows and rows of jars with pickles of some kind. Homemade, unlabelled. And a couple of bags of empty glass jars."

Sherlock catches on quickly. "Salt! You mentioned salt!"

"Yeah, it was stored under his bed."

"Ah, well that could explain it. Brian was an industrious home-pickler."

"Yeah, I didn't think anything of it at the time. I thought the pickles belonged to Miss Cushing, since they were stored in the hallway cupboard. I just supposed the glass jars were collected over time for recycling."

"Then tell me which is more probable: Miss Cushing storing the pickles for him, or Brian storing ridiculous amounts of salt for her?"

"What if they were running a pickle club together? You know, like 'first rule of pickle club... you do not talk about pickle club'." Sherlock's face is blank. He must have deleted _Fight Club_.

"In her kitchen?"

John shrugs. "Why not? Seems as likely as anything else in this case."

Sherlock regards John with scepticism. "Are you serious about this?"

He throws his hands up. "I don't know! All I know is that, if there were pickles in all the empty jars, and he's been on MAOIs, then he'd be severely risking his health if he's eaten all those bloody gherkins!"

This piques Sherlock's interest. "What would pickles do? Except the general risks of a high sodium concentration?"

"If you're on an MAOI, you should refrain from eating tyramine-rich food, which is essentially aged or fermented food of any kind. Aged cheese, tap beer, red wine, air dried meat and um, Marmite, if I remember correctly."

"That's restrictive. What _could_ he eat without killing himself?"

"Well he should have stayed away from old and spoiled food, and then of course sauerkraut, and other pickled or fermented greens."

"Oh. Seems we have probable cause of death, unless Molly tells us otherwise. I'll text her too."

The train passes Purley, which means their stop is next.

There's one thing that's been bothering John. A turn of phrase that, in hindsight, was a bit odd. John stands up to reach for the flimsy backpack, which he's put on the shelf above Sherlock.

"Sherlock, why did you call it 'target practise' when you came clean about experimenting on me at the pier? I mean, call it whatever you want, I'd just say shooting gallery, as the sign said."

The train slows down unexpectedly, and John briefly loses his balance as he's stretched up on his toes to reach the shelf. There's a bit of a wobble and he unintentionally bumps into Sherlock.

Sherlock steadies him with his left hand. "You don't need to create excuses to touch me. It's all right," he says. "I can bring the backpack down for you, and you can sit here beside me."

"No, it's all right." John grabs the bag, and turns. As he's standing, the train passes a stretch of allotments. For a few seconds John spots an elderly couple raking their lot, before the train has rushed past. It makes John think. "Is it possible someone set fire to the shed by mistake? Is it burning season in the gardening world yet?"

He doesn't know much about gardening, but he's pretty sure, in more rural areas, one is supposed to burn the fallen leaves after raking them into piles, or something like that. Yes, it's definitely too early in the season; most of the trees haven't even changed yet.

Sherlock is texting with his left hand, slowly, and not responding. Then they're already at East Croydon and it's time to get off the train.

The sweltering heat has finally lifted from London.

Lestrade looks refreshed when they meet him in the garden. "I hope some de-stressing has done you both good." He smiles, then notices the matching salt stains on their trouser legs and muddy shoes, but doesn't comment. Still, Sherlock glares at John. Of course he can deduce that John had texted Lestrade about Sherlock needing time off. Not some crap about the case being too boring, or whatever excuse Sherlock might have given.

Lestrade lets them in under the new tape.

"I guess now you don't have to bother about the clean-up," John says, smug.

"Christ! You can count yourself lucky you didn't have to see that." Lestrade looks around, as if he's about to let them in on a secret. "Now, promise to keep mum about this--Anderson has taken a few days off."

John finds Sherlock's eyes. He's equally amused, biting his lip to keep from smiling.

The fire brigade has, of course, stomped all over the lawn, leaving a mottle of footprints in the mud created by the mass of water used to put out the fire.

"It was an anonymous call, probably one of the neighbours," Lestrade says.

"I have a distinct feeling there's amateurs at work here," says Sherlock.

Lestrade does a double take. "I must say, you have very high standards. Not even the boys from Croydon Fire are good enough for you, huh?" he mutters, slightly offended on behalf of the London Fire Brigade.

"Aside from the trampling horde, I don't have any complaints. I was referring to the arsonist."

"Oh, how so?"

"I was convinced there was a professional behind this. The lack of fingerprints, or any other traces on the letters, guaranteed the anonymity of the sender. But this-" Sherlock gestures towards the charred remnants of the shed. "-this tells me that it's an attempted cover-up. It also tells me that the person behind this isn't quite the type I was envisioning."

"What type were you envisioning?" asks John.

"Someone more sinister," Sherlock says, cryptically. "Someone who would rather flaunt their accomplishments than cover them up."

Lestrade gives him a measuring look. "There's something I want to show you," he says.

They follow him around the muddy perimeter. A large area behind the shed is charred, the former shrubbery obliterated, only thin blackened stems lying like jack-straws on the ground.

"Look at this," Lestrade says, indicating the remnants of the back wall of the shed. "What do you make of it?"

Below it, stacked against the few remaining boards and battens, is a pile of rounded shapes, blackened and broken.

"The officers told me this pile wasn't here when they did the initial search of the garden. Admittedly, it was dark, and a messy tangle of greenery back here, but they've assured me they did a thorough search."

"They're right."

"Oh, I'm glad," says Greg, surprised. "You're not questioning their capability."

"That would be a too generous interpretation, I'm afraid. John!" Sherlock dangles a vinyl glove. "Just look at this!" he muses, indicating the charred pile, while John helps him to pull the glove on. "This is _desperation_." Sherlock dives into the pile, nose first, and now John recognises the rounded shapes--cracked and charred glass jars.

"John, why don't you tell the Inspector what you saw in the cupboard beneath the stairs." 

"Um, the same kind of jars, possibly these, filled with homemade pickles. Miss Cushing used a key to open the cupboard."

"She's still staying at her sister's," says Greg.

"Right, so we can scratch the pickling club, then," says John.

Greg gives him a questioning look. "Pickling club?"

"Never mind." John shakes his head. "Just a silly theory."

"I might send Donovan over to have a word."

"No need," says Sherlock. "Anyone with access to Miss Cushing's flat had access to all her keys. You might want to check for fingerprints, though. Because, contrary to the letters, this has _amateur_ written all over it." He triumphantly presents a slightly blackened, but otherwise intact, jar. "Now this might give us some answers. I'll bring it to Barts for a proper analysis of the content."

"Oh, it wasn't gherkins," John observes. "Looks like asparagus."

"Either way, I want to be sure there's no lethal additions. Pickled asparagus doesn't usually warrant to be burned in a futile attempt to conceal it's content," Sherlock says. "John." He indicates one of his coat pockets. John sticks his hand in there, finding a zip bag. He pulls it open for Sherlock to gingerly lower the jar into it and then zips it up.

"What's happened to your hand?" Greg asks.

John quirks an eyebrow, placing the jar in Sherlock's coat pocket. "Let's call it _A Study in Adrenal Response_ , shall we?" Sherlock doesn't deign to answer, only demonstrably pulls off the vinyl glove with his teeth.

Greg looks between them. "Were you two in a pub brawl or something?" When he doesn't get an answer he shrugs. "Well, just keep me updated. Donovan has packed up the gardening tools from Mr James' flat. They're in the van outside. You have my permission to take them with you to Barts."

"Was it Donovan who searched his flat?" John asks.

"She did."

"Right. She's not around, is she?

"No, and you two are not allowed to go back in there. I don't want you anywhere near Miss Badu. There was a complaint." Greg glares at Sherlock.

John gives Sherlock a look, imploring him to make an apology, even though he knows it's a fruitless attempt.

Greg turns to John. "You had a theory regarding Mr James' medication, didn't you?" At John's nod, he says, "You should check with Donovan, then."

He follows them to the police van to hand over a lidded plastic box, containing the gardening tools, and then they head towards Barts.

*

They find Molly in the canteen.

Sherlock plonks down on the chair across from her. "How are we faring with Mr James?"

Molly startles. "Oh, hello. I'm just having a little break, but otherwise, nearly done."

Sherlock bores his eyes into her. "I need to see him." 

"Could we have a peak?" asks John, in a much lighter tone. He places the plastic box on the table.

Molly grimaces. "Sorry, he's already wrapped up and on his way back into cold storage."

"I need access to the lab," says Sherlock, more firmly. "This evidence needs to be examined." He taps the box. "And I might have to run a soil sample test." When she makes no move to acquiesce to his demands, he raises his brows and grits through his teeth, "Preferably now."

"Sherlock. Let her finish her coffee."

"Um, sorry. Can't do that," Molly says, a bit nervous.

"What now, Molly?" Sherlock tilts his head to study her. "' _Can't_ '? That's a rare word, coming from you."

"Well, I don't want company when I'm finishing up the report."

Sherlock scoffs at the nonsense.

"Come back in an hour and the lab is yours," says Molly, resolutely setting down her coffee mug on the table.

"We need lunch anyway," John says, placatingly. "It's way past lunchtime, almost dinner."

Sherlock pulls the bagged pickle jar out of his coat pocket. "When you're done, analyse the contents of this jar. It's some kind of pickles."

Molly just stares at him. "Are you serious?"

"Of course! I will examine the contents of this box, and do the soil sample analysis, but this needs to be analysed too. It _cannot wait_ , so we'll work simultaneously. I need you to do it."

Molly sighs and rolls her eyes. "While I'm happy to dig around in stomach content, pickles in a jar isn't exactly within my field of expertise." She stands up to leave. "And I don't have time for it, I need to finish the report."

As well as meeting someone, Sherlock muses. That explains the flowery blouse with a frilled neckline and new shade of lipstick. Oddly enough, the new tone suits her skin colouration. "As I texted you earlier today, Mr James might have gotten himself sick by eating these. Or, he didn't and died anyway."

Molly sighs. "You'll just have to read the report, like everyone else. All I can say is there were no signs of foul play."

He gives her an expectant look, not at all satisfied with her pithy answer.

"Ugh, fine! Hypertension brought this on. He died from an aneurysm. Happy now?"

"Great!" Sherlock says, putting on a grin and then instantly dropping it. "You've basically confirmed John's hypothesis--death by pickles. Only, someone tried to burn them during the night, so we can't assume it was a mere accident. Someone other than Brian James and Miss Cushing had access to the cupboard where he stored the pickles. There's something more sinister going on with these!" He shoves the jar into Molly's hands. 

"Keep it safe," he says and winks, then pushes the box of gardening tools towards her. "And these, too."

She sighs again, but grabs the box anyway.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock says, polite, but dismissive, and turns to John. "So, a late lunch, you say?"

John is busy with his phone. "Sherlock, for real," he mutters when Molly's left them. "It's only been a few weeks since her former boyfriend was on national television for committing the crime of the century. Give her a break." John's phone pings. "Nice! Donovan has sent me better photos of the _Parnate_ boxes. She included the leaflets too." He turns the phone over to show Sherlock. "Apparently, he had a whole stock."

"Hmm. Can you make out the date of prescription?"

John enlarges the picture with his index finger and thumb. "Yeah," he says, absently, as he studies the picture. "Bloody hell, he must've gone off them years ago. I bet his doctor didn't know he stopped taking them long before the prescription ended."

"And then for some reason he started medicating again, of his own volition, unsupervised."

"Hypertension and antidepressants are a wild mixture. Add a ridiculous amount of sodium from the pickles, and it's a recipe for disaster waiting to happen. I believe Molly's diagnosis; there was a bulge at the base of his skull, one large enough for pooled blood from a ruptured aneurysm. When the clot burst, it had to go somewhere." John shakes his head. "If it hadn't been an aneurysm, it could have been a heart attack that ended him."

"Still, I want to know if there's something wrong with the asparagus. Since the pickles were clearly homemade, we need to rule out the possibility that something went wrong in the process."

"Like an unintended chemical reaction?"

"Well, more like too low a level of acid, or not high enough temperature. If it's not done properly, it can create a breeding ground for harmful bacteria like botulism."

"Ah, right. And you're positive it wasn't Miss Cushing trying to poison her tenant?" John's smile is crooked.

"If she was, she'd need an accomplice, since she was at her sister's when the shed burned."

There is something nagging Sherlock's mind, but it's just out of reach. Only a slight irritation telling him there's something he should pay attention to. 

"John, buy something you can grab. I need to think."

"You mean you need a smoke," John counters.

John really is that clever. It's heart-warming. "Actually, yes. I don't like waiting. And, I want to show you something in the meantime."

John buys a toastie wrapped in a napkin, and has managed to eat it all by the time they reach the lift. He really is a sloppy, but effective eater. He's dabbing his mouth for crumbs, as Sherlock pushes the top floor button. John's phone pings in tune with the doors when the lift stops.

There's a final set of stairs leading up to the door to the roof.

"I used to come up here to have a smoke." Sherlock nods in the direction of the stairway. "No disturbances, only the whirr and rumble of ventilation units, and the sounds of the city. As peaceful as it gets."

"Mmmm." John is fiddling with his phone again. "Didn't Susan Cushing say Brian used to bring her flowers?"

They've reached the landing. "She said 'garden flowers', specifically. How so?" Sherlock opens the door.

"Well, there were no flowers growing in her garden," John says.

"Oh." He's right. There was only the lawn, the odd decorative garden gnome, and the shrubbery that burned with the shed. So Brian couldn't have picked any flowers there.

They step out onto the roof. The view is stunning, as always.

"John, see? The old Bailey. And to your left, Saint Paul's Cathedral."

"Nice!" The dome is impressive at this height and rather short distance away. John smiles to himself. "It reminds me of the London skyline of the Thames Television ident on the telly back in the day." He hums the short tune.

Sherlock smirks. "You're dating yourself, John."

"Oi, leave off," John grumbles goodnaturedly. "You're not that much younger than me, you poncy twat."

Sherlock lights his cigarette as they walk around a bit, slowly approaching the parapet. He notices John dawdling and turns back to him to find out what's wrong.

"You might not like this," John starts.

"Oh? Are you planning to confiscate my cigarettes?"

"That's a very tempting idea, but no. I was thinking of something else. When we were on the train, approaching Croydon, we passed an allotment area. And then, I was thinking of those gardening tools, so I texted Sally Donovan again."

"Well, if she'd paid any attention while searching the flat, she would have noticed them too, long before I texted Lestrade about it."

John nods. "Right. I asked her to check for any records of Brian James having an allotment."

This catches Sherlock's attention. "And?" he prompts.

"She just confirmed it. She's already on her way there to have a look."

"Oh." Sherlock doesn't care for Sally Donovan, but John is _brilliant_. "Kiss me, John."

John blinks.

"Just come here," Sherlock urges with a sudden impatience. John doesn't move. "Oh, come on! We've already established that you can't deny me." John tilts his head and narrows his eyes, as if Sherlock is up to something a bit not good. " _John_. Please," Sherlock breathes.

That settles it. John acquiesces and they meet in a somewhat unbalanced kiss, where Sherlock is keen and passionate, while John is a bit slow to answer with the same fervour, seemingly dumbstruck by the sudden shift.

"What's this about?" John gives him a searching look. "Sherlock?"

"An appreciation of your brilliance. And your mouth."

John reddens slightly, so Sherlock abandons his fag and kisses him again. And again, pulling him downwards until they're on their knees, holding onto each other tight. When John pauses, and draws back a bit, Sherlock can clearly see the dilation of his pupils. They're not anywhere near the parapet. There's no danger at all. Then John pulls him close again, and they're back to snogging, John's tongue in his mouth. It's all a rush of nicotine and hormones surging through him, making him stupid and malleable--and he loves it.

John's phone pings again, and they break off, panting.

"Sally's sent some photos. Hold on," says John, breathlessly, one hand still on Sherlock's chest. _Grounding_. John flicks through the photos, then hands the phone over to Sherlock.

A lovely bush of roses, lavender-blue asters (a bee favourite) and, even though the flowers have long since wilted, clearly a patch of calla lilies. Sherlock has an ominous feeling. He stands up.

"John, there's white lilies and roses. The blooming would be over weeks ago, but I'm positive those are lily stalks."

"Oh." John rises, brushing off his knees. "Right. Gardening tools, white lilies, homemade pickles--I'm sensing a pattern, here."

"Indeed."

"Maybe Brian was behind the funeral bouquet anyway?"

Sherlock bores his eyes into John's. "But _why?_ " Something about it doesn't add up.

"Maybe he'd had enough of the constant banging on pipes. Tired of running errands like an unpaid servant?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Possibly." Though he doesn't believe it.

"So he grew asparagus, lilies and roses. Was he meaning to threaten and eventually kill off Miss Cushing by, say maybe sabotaging a batch of pickles and giving them to her? At her age food-poisoning is more risky."

"Or someone wants to put blame on him, but he died because of his own stupidity, before they managed to kill Miss Cushing." It's a possibility that seems increasingly more likely.

"I would say returning depression, shame and denial is a more likely reason than being stupid," John argues. "Few people lack that kind of self-preservation out of mere stupidity."

"Oh, John." Sherlock sighs. "Your naïveté is endearing."

"It is?" John's eyes gleam. "I'll tell you what's endearing--your response when I touch you, or kiss you, or simply breathe into your ear." He's clearly waiting for Sherlock to respond. "This morning was quite enlightening."

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock sneers.

John's bevy of inopportune moments are astronomical. This is not the time. It could have been, a few minutes ago; they could have tasted each other, made love, awkwardly, on a rooftop in full daylight. They could have ended up on the rough tarmac, scraped and bruised and utterly spent. And Sherlock would be soaring. Dopamine, serotonin and oxytocin. Yet, he would have been grounded, feeling John's warmth, John's heartbeat. But only if he hadn't known that at an allotment in Croydon grows the very flowers that were sent to Miss Cushing to threaten her.

The most pressing question now is, who would know of this place? Who would want to put blame on Brian? Sherlock is not sure how the motive fits in, but there's too many coincidences to ignore. He needs to be sure.

"I think it will burn tonight," he posits.

"I'm sorry?"

"Brian's allotment. Tell Sally to not tape it off! I don't want to inform the perpetrator about our interest. I need to go there to see it for myself."

John checks his watch and the sun's position. "I don't think we'll manage to get there before sunset."

"Either way, I need to be there. We'll drop in on Molly first, then head straight to the allotment. There's something missing in these photos from Donovan. There's something I'm not seeing."

It's the most likely explanation. Something, or _someone_ will be waiting for him. 

A message.

*

Molly hangs her lab coat on a peg as they step into the lab.

"Have you started on the analysis yet?" Sherlock presses immediately.

"Nope," says Molly, buttoning up her cherry patterned cardigan.

" _Molly_. It's important." Sherlock tilts his head to the side and lets his voice go smooth: "Didn't I ask nicely?"

John huffs.

Molly faces Sherlock. "Actually, you didn't."

"Oh." The charming face falls. "Um, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you say that, but I'm pretty sure you don't mean it. Anyway, I do know what's in the jar, with reasonable accuracy. If you need the lab to confirm it, it's all yours. I'm done for today." She reaches for her coat.

"How can you be sure without an analysis?" John asks.

Molly tries to keep a smile from emerging. "I, um... I let the jar make some rounds in the canteen after you left."

That's a bit worrying.

"Dear Lord, _Molly!_ " Sherlock grabs his hair. "You don't know if it's toxic!"

"Unopened, of course," Molly reassures. "Turns out Meena could identify the content as _Japanese knotweed_. Her in-laws have had trouble with it in their garden."

"And she's positive that's what it is?" asks John, noticing how Sherlock's become significantly quiet after the pickled contents were named. He's staring intently at his phone.

"Yeah. Apparently it's an edible weed. She said her in-laws had served it like rhubarb pie, so she's familiar with how it looks when it's been chopped and heated."

"Right." John turns to Sherlock. "Was that a clue?"

"Donkey rhubarb," Sherlock says slowly. "Of course. _Donkey rhubarb_ , because of it's pink coloured stems early in the spring, and the rhubarb-like taste of young shoots. _German sausage_ due to the dotted pattern of the stems. Also known as _pea-shooter plant_ , named after the excellent pea-shooting properties of it's hollow stems. _Hancock's curse_ , because apparently it's a Sisyphean task to get rid of the weed, which, according to legend, somehow is a certain Mr Hancock's fault. And _Fleeceflower_ \- all different names for the same weed." He holds up his phone to show John a picture.

"Se anything familiar? Japanese knotweed, _Fallopia japonica_."

John blinks. He's suddenly feeling warm and fluttery, like an infatuated schoolboy, as he remembers the kiss in their little humming tunnel of love. The memory of his blatant demonstration of desire makes his cheeks heat in reminiscence. He was ready to take things further right then and there. He can't be sure, but it seemed Sherlock was in a similar mood just now, on the roof, before John tried to be cheeky and made stupid remarks.

"I wonder if Miss Cushing has put her house on the market?" Sherlock says, out of the blue.

"Her house?"

Sherlock ignores the question. "How devilish." His eyes are alight. "I was almost fooled by what looked like an amateurish attempt to destroy evidence. It was clever, oh so clever. It was a beacon."

"Oh, come on! Give me a break," Molly blurts out. "Why do you have to be so bloody cryptic?"

They both turn to Molly, stunned.

"I've seen this before. I know you think I'm mousey, but it doesn't mean I'm blind!" Molly is exasperated. "You never explain your theories, only enumerate exactly how many they are, and then keep mum about it until you can rattle off the clever solution, to his amazement and applause." She points to John, who blushes to his roots. "How about you bloody let anyone else into your head from time to time? Stop brooding and speak up, for goodness' sake!"

There is a silence. John thinks Molly has a point. She pulls her coat on. "Actually, never mind me. I'm off to The Fox. I have a date."

"Apparently."

John gives Sherlock a look.

Sherlock shifts. "Good luck, Molly," he says sincerely, which makes Molly roll her eyes, before she turns around to leave.

"I mean it, and I'm sorry," says Sherlock, with a sudden urgency. "For everything."

Molly manages a small smile. "It's all right. I'm off to a date, and I'm very happy about it."

She leaves them.

"So, what now?" John asks. "Examine the gardening tools, or visit the allotment?"

"The allotment, of course. Dusk is near, we have no time to lose."

*

The whole allotment area is fenced in, with rail tracks along two sides, but at the south end there is a dead-end street with a much lower fence which they can easily climb over.

"How come you know so much about bees and plants?" John asks as they crouch in the low-growing foliage behind a hedge while dusk is descending.

It's a rare moment, but John is certain that Sherlock is nervous about the answer. Or shy, he's never quite sure when it comes to Sherlock's more unreadable expressions. "It's an, um, a special interest of mine, since a young age."

"Really? How come I never knew?"

"Because I have the bad habit of keeping things from you, I'm afraid." He nudges John's elbow. "Sorry about that."

"Speaking of, you were awfully quiet in the cab. Anything you wanna share?" Sherlock's reaction tells John all he needs to know. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't it? Christ! I've told you to not keep me out."

"All right, I'll explain," Sherlock placates. "The plant Molly's colleague identified, and which you and I had a moment inside, this morning in Brighton, it's, as I said before, terribly difficult to get rid of. Costly. It's extremely potent, an invasive species, spreading fast and strong through rhizomes in the ground. If you hack it away on the surface, it returns quickly, because it's true growth is tied to its root system. Roots can grow twenty feet long, rhizome runners can extend to sixty. You dig it up, but drop a sliver of its stem, a fragment weighing just a seventh of a gram, and it will sprout and produce a new plant. Like I said, a Sisyphean task, you'll never be done with it. It's vital that you seek out a specialist to cull any regrowth, which usually involves high costs."

"What's bad about it, then? Why do people want to get rid of it? If it's edible, I mean. The one in Brighton was like a cosy tunnel, and you said the bees like the flowers."

"It grows through concrete. It destroys property."

"Right."

"Your idea about a treasure under the floor in the shed wasn't too far off the mark. Only, it wouldn't be a treasure, but a curse. We'd find its shoots, growing strong and already penetrating the floor, finding the tiniest cracks, eventually widening them. Now, imagine this happening, not to your shed, but to your main house."

"Oh."

"It's so strong it can penetrate brick walls, solid masonry foundations and even flood defences.   
Growth rate can be up to ten centimetres per day. Think of how much that adds up to through the course of a summer. Isn't it fascinating?"

"So, what you're saying is, that this is a case of real estate sabotage?"

"Exactly. What a cunning, devious plan."

"Huh." John rubs his forehead. "I'm not sure I'm getting it... "

"And then there were the letters, the cardboard box with Miss Cushing's jewellery and finally the beheaded flowers, which not so incidentally grow on the other side of this hedge."

John peers through the foliage, trying to get a glimpse of the flowers, but it's too dense. "Um, I don't really get how they're connected. You said maybe Miss Cushing had put her house on the market--do you mean someone wants to make her lose money?"

"First, threaten her until she feels unsafe in her own home, to the point that she wants to abandon it. And meanwhile, spreading the roots of Hancock's curse."

"So it's about revenge?"

"Doesn't have to be. It's a demonstration of capabilities. As I said, the burning was a beacon to draw attention to the fact that Miss Cushing's garden is infested with Japanese knotweed."

"It is?"

"The shrubbery behind the shed."

"Oh."

"And this hedge, have you taken a closer look, John?"

"Sorry?"

"The bees aren't active at night, or else you would have recognised the sound."

John turns his head to look at their cover. He can't see any details in the dark, but he recognises the bamboo-like shape of the stems. "Bloody hell!"

"Indeed."

John clicks his torch on to light up the pathway to their right. He directs the light downward, holding the torch low to the ground to not give away their presence, and that's when he sees it: small ruddy sprouts peeking out through the gravel, in a very dense formation. He lets his torch follow the direction of their growth, and sees that the stretch of grass alongside the path is infested too, the stalks higher. The very foliage surrounding them is the same plant. It looks like someone has been trying to cut the stems down, and now a new generation of sprouts are taking over. The hedge-like form they're hiding behind is man-high. John is starting to grasp the extent of the problem. He clicks off his torchlight.

"So, that's what you meant when you said the allotment would burn, too, that the person behind this will burn the weed growing here too?"

"It may not need to come to burning."

Sherlock's being cryptic again. "What are you saying?"

"It's the timing, John!" Sherlock says in a fit of pique. "The letters started coming right around when Moriarty first turned up. You heard her say it too... _when Connie Prince died_."

John feels stupid.

"And the cardboard box came right before Moriarty's arrest. The Crown Jewels, John! Miss Cushing's _jewellery_."

"This is very confusing to me, Sherlock," John says, feeling a growing unease. "I'm not sure I understand you correctly. Be frank with me. What are we facing?"

"Remember when Miss Cushing first told us about the bouquet? And I said the flowers were significant. I was fooled by the nonsensical receipts, but you pointed out they were designed to drive someone 'round the bend. Think of the sustained terror of getting your own receipts in the mail, no threats, no demands. Someone stealing your jewellery and then returning it, only demonstrating that they can break the privacy of your own home. And a funeral bouquet. So very elaborate. Professional."

John goes very still, barely breathing, the hair on the back of his neck on end. Then he grabs Sherlock's upper arms, stares him intently in the eyes. "Tell me, now," he grits out. "Do you think it's Moriarty?"

"Well, nothing says ´ _deranged_ ´ like a lovely nosegay of headless roses and some calla lilies," Sherlock says, almost flippantly.

"Christ, Sherlock!"

There's a sound of footsteps on the gravelled pathway between the lots. John stares at Sherlock, not really believing what's happening. When the footsteps come to a stop, John's hand reflexively goes towards his lower back, where he usually keeps his gun in situations like this. But, of course, the SIG-Sauer is at 221B.

"Target practise," Sherlock whispers and winks. Then he pulls John's SIG-Sauer out of his coat pocket and puts it in John's hand. John glares daggers at him in the dark, but the weight of the gun in his hand is still comforting. Sherlock raises his brows in inquiry and John nods silently. They step out from behind the Japanese knotweed not-hedge, simultaneously, and in one smooth motion John takes aim at the figure standing in Brian James' lot.

"Oh." That's the only word that slips out from Sherlock's lips. John breathes out, feeling tension fall away, relieved. Sherlock seems stunned. After a moment of processing he collects himself. "We've found our amateur arsonist. Good evening, Miss Badu," Sherlock greets her. "Care to explain why you seem intent on burning things?"

Wendy Badu doesn't answer.

"Miss Badu," Sherlock says gently. "There's no need to be upset about being caught at the scene. Even if you'd gotten away and managed to dispose of the fuel you're carrying, you wouldn't have passed my notice."

Since she doesn't seem prepared to flee, John soon lowers his gun and puts it away at the back of his jeans.

"You've wrapped your hair," Sherlock observes. "A damp cotton wrap to prevent the synthetic weave in your braids from melting by the heat of the flames. I bet you scorched your hair last time, when you lost control of the fire. If you'd remove that wrap, I'd see some melting."

"Mr Holmes," Wendy Badu begins.

"I know you care about your hair. You meet the parents of your young students every day and feel the pressure to look proper."

"Mr Holmes," she tries again.

"Every evening, you tie your braids up and wrap them in silk, to protect the hair from wearing when you sleep."

"Sherlock." John nudges his elbow.

"Mr Holmes. This has nothing to do with my hair," Wendy Badu says levelly. "I'm here to stop the insanity. To give the allotments a chance. The cost of hiring a professional removal firm would do a lot of damage to this community. Since Brian won't be around to fight it anymore, I need to do my part. It was my bloody stupid idea, and I want to try to make things right."

"I'm sure you have your reasons," Sherlock says. "What I'd like to know is, how many lies you've told me and the officers."

Wendy Badu places the container she's been carrying on the ground and crosses her arms. She gives Sherlock a measured look, waiting for him to continue.

"First off, do you really suffer from tinnitus?"

She huffs. "What do you think? After nearly twenty years in nurseries and preschools? Of course I have bloody tinnitus, and of course I told you the truth about wearing noise-cancelling headphones at home. I told you and the officers the truth when I said I don't know what happened to Brian, and that I hope you catch the killer. How's that going for you?"

Sherlock breathes in slowly, then out. John recognises that he's unusually short-tempered, but trying to rein himself in.

"So you were really friends?" Sherlock asks.

"Of course. Not close friends, but he was a good egg. He kept mostly to himself. He used to help Miss Cushing with the lawn and other stuff. And, he's spent a lot of time here at the allotment. I think he started gardening once he retired."

Sherlock considers this. "Where does he keep his gardening tools? There's no shed here."

"I suppose they share." She shrugs. "There are locked storage buildings further up the path. I've only been here once before, but he regularly brought me flowers from his lot."

"Oh, you, too." Sherlock narrows his eyes. "What kind of flowers?"

"I haven't thought of their particular names, but the ones he's planted here, I guess." She turns to John. "Maybe you can tell me then, as Mr Posh doesn't deign to answer. Do you know who killed Brian?"

"Um." John hesitates, looking to Sherlock.

"You can tell her, John."

"Right. It was an accident."

"Well, who caused it, then? You wouldn't be out here sneaking around in the dark unless there was some foul play to discover."

"He was stupid enough to do it himself," Sherlock blurts out. "I'm sorry, Miss Badu, but that's the truth."

"Well... stupid, or simply depressed and in denial about the potentially severe dietary interactions his medication could cause," John corrects.

"I noticed he was depressed, all right. I didn't know he was medicating."

"No, and we assume his doctor didn't either," says John, sympathetically. "Mr James died of an aneurysm, caused by a severe case of hypertension. We believe an hypertensive emergency was brought on by his medication in combination with him eating a lot of pickles. It's fatal without immediate intensive care treatment."

Miss Badu seems shaken.

"I don't know if you've been informed about Mr James' clothing when he was found?" John asks. "If we presume he ignored the symptoms too long, he'd start to suffer from confusion as well as impaired judgement and memory. That might explain his state of undress. This is merely speculation, but I can imagine a scenario where he was confused and also affected by the heat, so he went out in the garden for some reason that he might have forgotten. So, he ended up in the shed, where the ensuing stupor forced him to sit down. Since he was alone in the shed, out of sight, there was no one there to call an ambulance for him. Sadly, this is the best explanation I can give you. I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss Badu."

"Those bloody pickles," she says tightly. "I was right to burn them."

"Yes, that is interesting," Sherlock says, seemingly unaware of the gravity of the moment. " _Why_ did you burn them? I have my theories, but I would like to hear it from you."

Wendy Badu turns to Sherlock, raising her eyebrows. "Well, as you are all-knowing I suppose you already know that he was pickling Japanese knotweed?"

"Yes, that's been proven in a lab test," Sherlock lies effortlessly. "Since you're an amateur at burning things, there was one pickle jar left intact which allowed us to analyse it."

John doesn't really believe in the good cop, bad cop strategy, but he feels inclined to offer some comfort to Miss Badu, as she's been caught red-handed and it's clear Sherlock has the upper hand. "Miss Badu, we passed a bench a few lots down the path. Would you like to sit down?"

"I stand up most of my workday," Miss Badu says evenly.

It really is a crap strategy. "Right."

"But if you lot need to sit, by all means, sit, and I'll sit with you," she offers.

As it happens, they all three sit down on that wooden bench, now covered in dew. John is in the middle, as a physical manifestation of the bumper role he often takes upon himself when Sherlock is dealing with clients. They listen as Wendy Badu tells her story.

"When you said Brian used to spend time in the shed, I was terrified you'd find something there. I've never been inside, and I knew he used to muck about _behind_ the shed. But what if he kept knotweed samples in there somewhere? I couldn't sleep that night; I wanted the damned weed gone. Those pickles would be evidence of Brian handling the plant. Even if he's dead, I wouldn't want him to be remembered as the retired weed-wielding pickling vigilante. So I figured it best to burn it all, but the officers hung around until very late. Sergeant Donovan had left me her number, so I called her to make a complaint about your insensitive 'questioning'. I'm not intimidated by bullies like you, but it seemed a safe course of action to pre-emptively blame my nerves on the situation with you, in case I would be questioned about the fire.

"That was very thoughtful of you," Sherlock says, almost admiringly.

"Not that it went smoothly. Last night I had better luck; there were no officers around, and Miss Cushing hadn't come home either. I didn't want to go inside the shed, so I piled up all the jars behind it and stomped down some stems to make a pyre around them. Once I had managed to set fire to the shed, it felt so good to see it burn, like a big bonfire. It felt good to know that the place where Brian sat dead for hours wouldn't be anymore. I stood there crying, watching the flames take hold of the whole shrubbery. I was planning to call it in, so the fire could be contained, but someone else was faster. The sound of sirens sent me into a panic. What would the kids' parents say if I was arrested for arson? So I fled back in the house, cowardly. The firefighters knocked on my door to inform me of the fire, and reassured me they had it under control. In the morning, I went to work like nothing ever happened." She pats the wrap protecting her braids. "And you're completely right, I did scorch part of my hair."

"The silk scarf you were wearing would have burnt slowly, only dying flames and embers. You probably didn't even notice until you smelled it. But the grey ash, crumbling to a powder, would have told me the whole story."

"Well, I'm lucky the firefighter's weren't as observant as you."

"Indeed," Sherlock muses. "Why Japanese knotweed?"

"It was my idea to bring it in. When it seemed like Miss Cushing's sister would push her to move into a care home and sell the house, Brian and I became desperate. It's been a good arrangement. Miss Cushing needed the money. We needed somewhere to live, so she took us in. But we've always known it would happen eventually. She's old enough, she could pass anytime, even if she's healthy right now. And where would we go, then? It's not like we have any big savings. 

"My cousin had been declined a loan when he wanted to buy a house. It was near a water stream, where the knotweed naturally grows, and some of it was growing within the grounds of the property. I read up on it, saw the removal companies' advertising. I figured it could be worth a try; to bar any presumptive buyer from getting a loan, decrease the worth of the property. Then, maybe the sister wouldn't be so intent on selling the house.

"I mentioned it to Brian. He was the one who carried it out. The knotweed spreads along roadsides and riverbanks, and Brian knew just where to find some. He asked his fly-fishing mates, they know everything about the streams nearby. So by the end of last summer he brought it here to test it first, to see if he could make it grow. And it sure did, so he planted it behind the shed in Miss Cushing's garden too."

"It's an offence to plant, or otherwise allow, Japanese knotweed to spread in the wild," says Sherlock. "Also, all Japanese knotweed material, including contaminated soils, are classed as controlled waste, and disposal is regulated by law. Were you aware of this?"

"Well, Brian wasn't afraid of the possible legal repercussions, not at first."

John snorts and shakes his head.

Miss Badu glares at him. "I just think he also saw it in a bigger context. The neighbourhood is being bought up, bit by bit, by people with much bigger pockets than us. Eventually, there will be nowhere left to live for people with small incomes. Letting the knotweed loose could at least slow down that development. But it's a flawed argument, I know. Eventually, we both learned more about the detrimental effect the knotweed has on the local biodiversity. That it's an invasive plant with no natural enemies here, outside its country of origin. Brian had deep regrets. It was my stupid idea to casually say 'Well we could always eat it, now that it's growing here.' Apparently it's an Asian delicacy."

"That's true," says Sherlock. "Most parts of the plant are edible: young shoots, growing tips of larger plants and unfurled leaves on the stalk and branches. It contains large amounts of health beneficial substances such as Vitamin C and Resveratrol."

"I imagine Miss Badu's aware," John can't help but point out.

She laughs. "You're rather observant, too. And yes, we were aware of the health benefits. It shouldn't be dangerous. So, Brian started to collect the growing sprouts. He spent hours in Miss Cushing's kitchen making large batches of pickled knotweed, sealing the jars in her oven."

"Oh, that's what he needed the oven for!" John blurts out, feeling clever. "I thought it was odd Miss Cushing only mentioned Brian needing the oven, and not you, if you both have kitchenettes."

"Miss Badu, please continue," Sherlock prompts.

"Well, the knotweed grew back with a vengeance. So every time Miss Cushing visited her sister during the spring and early summer, Brian hacked away at the shrub."

"The gardening tools?" John asks, and Sherlock agrees with a nod. "Well, now I can understand why he kept them inside. I would probably have disinfected them too, to prevent any involuntary spread of the damned weed elsewhere."

"Brian spent the whole week Miss Cushing was away pickling in her kitchen. He was in bit of a frenzy with it, but I let him be, since it was my stupid idea to begin with. He thought it was a neat solution. I think it eased his conscience."

"Very neat, indeed," Sherlock agrees. "However inadequate, I'm afraid. Japanese knotweed is hard and time-consuming to get rid of. It's a growing problem, no pun intended."

John starts chuckling, which progresses to him doubling over, laughing until he has tears in his eyes. A bit of an overreaction, probably caused by the last days' emotional turmoil. When he manages to gather himself, he has one very pressing question. Sherlock might have been wrong, but he's rarely totally wrong.

"Do you have any idea who could have been sending threatening letters to Miss Cushing?" John asks. "Someone also sent her a funeral bouquet, with the same flowers Brian has been growing here on his lot."

"I haven't heard of any letters," Miss Badu says. "I'm not sure what you mean when you say funeral bouquet. But if you're asking about threats, then I'd bet it's her sister. I didn't want to be nosey and ask Miss Cushing about it, but it was clear from her sister's behaviour that she didn't like us. She wasn't shy about rather having Miss Cushing in a nursing home. Hopefully out of care for her older sister's wellbeing, but of course I suspect she mainly wanted the house sold. The value has increased over the years, even if they'd probably need to do some renovations, if they were to put it on the market. And we'd surely get kicked out then. She's never liked us. Brian helped Miss Cushing out, constantly. He thought her sister didn't like him being in Miss Cushing's good graces."

"Rightly so, it seems," says Sherlock. He hands his phone over to John. "John, please text Lestrade - and Donovan. ' _Return landlady to home, arrest sister. SH_ '."

Wendy Badu turns to Sherlock. "So are you going to hand me over to the police too?"

"Well, you've certainly put yourself in a bit of a predicament," says Sherlock. "However, it seems like I was being indiscreet when I, against all protocol, spoke _loudly_ to Dr Watson, right outside your door, about the probable cause of death." He looks at her pointedly. "It's perfectly understandable, though unadvisable, to burn the very things that killed your friend. It's no offence to burn some leaves in your garden now and again. You simply mistook how flammable the weed would be, and the shed sadly burned along with it. You panicked and fled the scene, but there was no harm done, no risk of endangering the neighbours, since the Fire Brigade was already on its way. How could you have known what Brian was planting and pickling? You didn't know anything about it until you heard our conversation. The only connection is through your cousin's botched attempt to buy a house, and there's not a soul at Scotland Yard who would ever get the idea to look into that."

"Why are you doing this?" Miss Badu demands, suspicion in her eyes. 

"I'm not the police," Sherlock says simply. "And there are way bigger fishes to catch."

"I can't deny everything, though. I need to help out with the knotweed."

"But you didn't read up on it until after you knew what caused Brian's death."

Wendy Badu considers this. "Well, I guess I shouldn't be the one who sets fire to this patch."

"You can simply suggest it to the enthusiasts here."

"I still need to help Miss Cushing out with the patch in the garden. Now that the surface is burned, at least I can start digging up the roots during winter, when the plant is dormant."

"I wish you luck with your endeavour. You're free to leave," Sherlock says.

"I can take care of that fuel container for you, just in case," John offers. "It'd be best to avoid any unnecessary questions."

She gives him a look, but reluctantly hands over the container.

"Good night, Miss Badu," says Sherlock.

She rises, giving them a wary look. "Good night."

She leaves them on the bench, soon swallowed up by the darkness, and with that, all John's diplomacy is used up for the night. He lets out his frustration.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! You did it again." John gets up off the bench and walks away a few steps to put some distance between himself and Sherlock. He kicks some gravel, finds it ridiculous, and turns around, raking his fingers through his hair. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were expecting to meet Moriarty here tonight? What the hell were you thinking? Thank God, you were wrong!"

Sherlock is quiet, his eyes cast down.

"I'm not asking you to let me in on every thought that passes through your head, but when you've found something out, share it with me. Okay?" John sits down beside him again, trying to catch his gaze. "Invite me into your reasoning, and if I'm capable, I'll follow. Just don't keep me out."

Sherlock's mouth is tight.

"Sherlock. Please." John hates that his voice trembles. "It's the one thing I ask for. _Let me in_."

Sherlock draws in a sharp breath and rises. "Dinner?"

They're back at Majida's. John can't believe she's accepting their shoddy appearance in her restaurant when there's other customers around. Majida readily reserved the table in the farthest corner for them. Quite prescient of her. She must have been in a dire situation when Sherlock helped her out.

Sherlock is having a smoke outside, while they wait for their food to be served. John sits in the shadows, surrounded by candlelight, watching his silhouette outside the window. He's striking, as always, against the yellowy light from the street lamps. Sherlock brings his phone up to his ear. John is amazed by his ability to keep both a smouldering fag and a phone in one hand, without scorching his ear or his curls. Now he starts pacing.

John's a bit worried. The Moriarty spin Sherlock put on the case was convincing. Sherlock was very sure. But why did he wait until the very last minute to tell John about his suspicions? Why did he bring the gun? He must have had it with him from the start of the case; throughout their visit to the crime scene, the interviews with witnesses and even in Brighton. He'd had it on himself when they were sitting on the beach, the ultimate de-stressor. If he had it in his coat pocket throughout, then it was there when they kissed for the first time, when John sneaked his arms around Sherlock to grab his arse. And on the roof, just hours ago, where things got heated.

John doesn't mind a gun being present in such situations. He admittedly doesn't like the concealment. But, it's the reason behind Sherlock bringing it in the first place, that has him worried.  
He doesn't want to leave Sherlock by himself. Not until they have spoken about it, for real. He never answered John's plea of being included--it was just a long quiet walk to the restaurant.

John stands up and goes outside to Sherlock, just catching the end of a conversation.

"I don't care if Sarah Cushing has confessed, there's something I need to rule out. When you interrogate her, you need to find out if she had help. If she consulted someone. No. No, just do it and let me know what comes up. I'll tell you when you have something for me. Goodnight Greg." Sherlock hangs up, and takes a drag on his wilting cigarette.

"You can't let it go, can you?" says John. "Consulting Moriarty? Christ, Sherlock. You're seeing ghosts."

Sherlock scowls. "Do you really believe that Susan Cushing would come up with the elaborate idea, of trying to drive her own sister 'round the bend, to make her seem demented and ready for a care home, all by herself?" 

"I wouldn't have believed that someone would get the idea of trying to vandalise the place where they live, to be able to stay there, and then trying to eat their way out of the conundrum. So, I guess anything is possible." John shrugs. "Maybe she's just seen too many episodes of _Crimewatch_."

"Mycroft and I have a saying about coincidences: _The universe is rarely so lazy_. In this case, there's far too many of them. _The timing,_ John."

"Well here's one thing I don't understand, because it doesn't make any sense. The minute before Moriarty nicked the Crown Jewels, he wrote ' _Get Sherlock_ ' on the glass, right in front of the surveillance cameras, before he broke it. It was _personal_ , it was directed at _you_ and no-one else. Why would he, at that point--yes, considering _the timing_ \--why would he give a crap about some old lady having issues with the tenants of her even older sister in bloody Croydon, and decide to steal her jewellery?"

"The flowers John, those are significant."

"Yeah, you've said that repeatedly. So let me take your word for it. Hang on." John pulls out his phone. Luckily he gets through immediately. "Hi Sally, it's John Watson. Are you with Miss Cushing right now? Susan Cushing that is. Great! I have a very important question for you: exactly when did Miss Cushing receive the flower bouquet? Mhm, sure, I'll wait."

Sherlock stares at him, his cigarette forgotten, the embers nearing the filter. Sally's voice is back in John's ear. "Right, thank you. And that date would place this event during the Moriarty trial, right? Yes, I thought so. No, no, it's nothing important. Right, sorry. Of course it was important. Listen, can I explain this some other time? Yes, I appreciate it. Cheers."

John puts his phone away. "You got that? Moriarty couldn't have done it himself. I know he has minions, but they couldn't have picked the lilies from Brians' lot, since they'd been past their season by then. You said it yourself, the flowers had wilted."

Sherlock shifts his feet, stumping out his cigarette. He puts his hand in his trouser pocket, no doubt to find that shell of his. 

"Listen, the most reasonable explanation is that Sarah Cushing bought the flowers at a florist, and then chopped off the rose heads by herself. I'll ask Donovan to check her receipts and bank withdrawals," John promises, feeling the need to somehow fix this for Sherlock. "There's a chance Sarah Cushing forgot about those things, even if she was an expert at not leaving fingerprints."

"John," Sherlock says, his voice a bit shaky.

"Yes?"

"I- I don't..." Sherlock stops.

"Sherlock, listen to me." John searches Sherlock's eyes. "Not every case coming your way is related to Moriarty. Though, I'm sure that's what he'd want you to believe, just so he can mess with your head. I know that verdict was a blow, but you need to get a grip. Now. Even when we first came out to Croydon, I saw that you were slipping. That's why I wanted us to get out of town for a bit. I saw you lying curled up on the couch in 221B for days on end. When Irene Adler disappeared the first time, Mycroft and I agreed on you accepting one, _one_ cigarette, could mean that you were in danger of relapse, so how do you think I dealt with you _chain-smoking?_ "

Sherlock finally finds his voice. "You fled the flat." 

"Yes, because I could tell you were fleeing too!" John takes his injured hand in his. "You didn't tell me anything about your worries. You kept them to yourself, and didn't want to let me in. So how could I have handled that differently?"

Sherlock bites his lip.

"Tell me Sherlock. What would you have me do?"

"I'm sorry, John. You're completely right. It seems I'm as foolish as Brian James. He didn't tell his friend about his returning depression and he didn't speak to his doctor."

"So tell me now," John says gently, relieved.

There's a discrete knocking from inside the restaurant window. It's Majida. Their dinner is served.

*

The topic is sensitive, and Sherlock would rather not have John shout inside Majida's restaurant, so he bides his time, watching John devour the food. The guests are slowly dissipating, thankfully. The sounds of contemporary Middle Eastern songs, the current one featuring the oud, plays softly in the background, muffling their voices. When the dessert's been served, and John has his mouth stuffed with baklava, Sherlock makes the jump.

"John, I never told you what happened on the day of the verdict, before you came back home," he begins, and it's enough. He sees the dawning understanding on John's face.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John splutters, flakes of phyllo dough flying. He grabs his napkin, pressing it to his mouth until he can speak properly. "I told you, I phoned you as soon as I got out of there to tell you he'd come after you."

"And you were right."

"Oh, God. What did he do to you? Why didn't you tell me?" John is predictably upset, but still keeps his voice down, in an admirable attempt to not overstep Majida's generosity by disturbing her customers.

"Moriarty came to Baker Street," Sherlock says evenly. "We had tea."

"Tea?" John is baffled.

"He spoke in riddles." Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know what he's up to."

"What did he say? Tell me," John demands.

"He said he owes me ' _a fall_ '. He carved out an apple, saying _I.O.U_. Just the letters."

"Nothing else?"

"He mentioned fairytales and the code he used for the break-ins." Sherlock sighs at the absurdity of that conversation. "I did tell you about the code," he adds. "I don't keep everything to myself."

John huffs.

"A fall. I.O.U. I owe you--it's just words and riddles. I've never liked riddles." Sherlock glowers. "Moriarty said ' _I owe you a fall_ ', and ' _falling is just like flying_ '. What did he mean by ' _fall_ '?" Sherlock presses the tips of his index fingers to his lips.

"Um, that's hard to tell," John admits, biting his lip.

"Fall down, fall over, fall asleep, fall for someone, American autumn, a fall from grace, a fallen angel. _Fall_ , along with _sag_ and _sak_ are the words for a case in the Scandinavian languages. If he owes me a _fall_ , does it mean he owes me a case?" Sherlock throws his hands up. "That's what's been on my mind, John. I can't work it out."

"Let me help then," says John. "Talk to me."

Sherlock sighs. This is all too vague, nothing concrete. No clues. Moriarty's always been dropping clues. If ' _a fall_ ' is a clue, Sherlock apparently fails to see it.

"Come on, Sherlock," John encourages. "I know you consider him a criminal genius. Just explain to me, as a non-genius, how this all fits together."

"Well, he's in possession of the code," Sherlock begins.

"Is that even possible?" John breaks in. "Making a super-code like that?"

"It's _very_ possible."

"Okay. Just seems awfully complicated to me. But I tap the laptop keyboard with my index fingers, so what do I know of computer codes?" John shrugs and takes a bite of his abandoned baklava. 

Sherlock can't believe how John can be so casual about this. "What do you mean 'complicated'? It's the most effective solution. It's what any criminal mastermind would dream of."

"Yeah, exactly." John swallows down the baklava with a big gulp of water. "No need to bribe someone to let you in, or place your people on the inside. Of course such a code would be convenient."

"What are you saying, John?"

"I mean, the mere existence of Mycroft and his minions, operating in a very grey area, makes it very easy for me to imagine Moriarty having people on the inside in all those three locations he broke into. He sneaked himself into Barts IT, why wouldn't he be able to get high security positions for his own people? It doesn't seem impossible to me."

"Of course it's not impossible, but with the code, there's no need anymore."

"So if he really has that code, why not use it to break in at the highest military facility there is? He'd be able to control weapons. He could start a war. But, he chose to open the Bank of England, Pentonville Prison and the Tower of London. Why these exact locations? And why do it openly and simultaneously, if not to gain massive media coverage?"

"I've already gone over this, John. It's simple. As with the whole trial, it's to advertise his capabilities. Moriarty loves the media coverage, he needs an audience."

"Well, that audience is usually you." John gives him a crooked smile and takes a sip of his wine.

Sherlock huffs.

"Moriarty did say he could get to nuclear codes. As a selling point, to put the code on the market. He already has bidders. All the bad ones. He doesn't want the money, he wants them to compete for his grace, like an old fashioned fairy tale king, or something."

"So does he want the power, or just the feeling of being powerful?" John ponders. "He's got both, unless he's bluffing about that computer code. So why would he need you? He got your attention, he even got you to testify in his own trial, and he walked free from it. He got the upper hand, he's got the ultimate power. What now? Why did he give you impossible riddles? To play games with him? What does he want from you, at this point?"

"He wants to solve ' _the final problem_ '. And I can't work out what that is. Believe me, I've been trying." It's frustrating and tiresome, and Sherlock is sick of it.

"It sounds like the same old story, to me. He's always gone with these super dramatic gestures, which apparently appeals to you." John gives him a pointed look. "So why would he go to all that trouble with a super-code if he's not even interested in the power it gives him? I mean, if he could convince you about it, hasn't he reached his goal then, without too much work? The constant bragging isn't new. He wants to make himself seem like a genius, just like you, so you'll play with him. You said the thing with the trainers was your first case, of sorts. He's obviously been obsessed with you for years."

John has a point. "He said it was ' _our problem_ '. He said he'd already told me. Told me _what?_ "

"I know he's terrifying, Sherlock," says John, reaching over the table to place his hand over Sherlock's. "But he's boasting. He wants to keep your attention, intimidate you, drag you into his games."

Sherlock squints at John, continuing that thought. "It's always been _personal_."

"Yes. Whether it's to throw you off, so he can do other crimes without you noticing, or just for the hell of it."

The realisation is obvious in its simplicity. "I fell into that trap, even without Moriarty being involved. I started to believe every clue was directed at me. I expected him to leave those traces so I could follow."

"Just like you did before. This case had nothing to do with Moriarty. What if the next case does? What if he starts dropping hints that you're able to follow?" John takes Sherlock's hand in his. "Sherlock, it's obvious--code or no code, riddles or bombs--either way, he wants _you_ , and he wants you to play along. What if you don't?"

It's a simple question. It's a loss of equilibrium. John squeezes his hand. A grounding point of contact.

"Tell me, Sherlock," John says, almost pleading. "Will you keep playing along in Moriarty's games?"

The answer is obvious. He shakes his head, to John's visible relief.

"You are brilliant, John," Sherlock says with reverence. "What if it's just as you said? What if it's all hyperbole? What if there is another explanation to how he could break in and let prisoners loose? What if there is no code? What if he's only trying to impress me by boasting? Bait me with his capabilities?"

"Like he's done from the start."

Sherlock feels like a heavy weight has lifted from his chest. He feels less like a caged lion. This changes everything. There are possibilities now. Endless possibilities and dangers.

"John, I know you sometimes doubted me, when Moriarty first made himself known. Maybe you thought I had a flippant attitude to his crimes. And you might have been right about that, to a degree. I didn't fully understand how dangerous he was, until he took you and dressed you in explosives."

Sherlock is trying hard to make this important point come across, but he's struggling to keep his voice from wobbling. "If there's one thing Moriarty did that I'm grateful for, it's that realisation."

John laughs, shaking his head.

"No, I mean it," Sherlock insists. "Apparently I drew the wrong conclusions. I thought it meant I should keep you at a distance, as to not endanger you further. I could not have been more wrong."

John is tender-eyed. He caresses Sherlock's hand. Every touch sends a sparkle through him. Electrodermal activity. His sympathetic nervous system is highly aroused. A polygraph would undoubtedly detect it.

Sherlock wants to smother John between pillows. Well, not actually smother him, but have him in his bed, cover him with his whole body, make him stay in bed forever so he can keep him close.

Sadly, he's yet to have John in his bed.

Majida comes to their table with tea. All the other customers have left, the music ended.

"Don't forget to put out the candles," she says. "I don't want a surprise call from the Fire Brigade. And no shagging!" She carefully presses the keys into Sherlock's outstretched bandaged hand.

"Shukran," he says.

Majida laughs at his unfortunate pronunciation. They kiss each other's cheeks.

"Take care, habibi. I'll put on some more music for you; ' _When He Begins To Sway_ '. It's ancient poetry." She winks and leaves them with their tea.

The vocalist's voice is pleasant, the words beautiful, even though he doesn't know their meaning. The piano's jazzy, the sway of the music captivating. Sherlock taps out the 10/8 meter against the warm skin of John's palm. Warm skin, a warm gaze, bathed in the warm colours of candlelight.

John entwines their fingers and leans forward, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "So what do you think: _The Adventure of the Cardboard Hoax_?"

Sherlock laughs. "Why? I can't accept that title without a thorough explanation."

"Because," John clears his throat. "' _There wasn't any ominous villain behind the threats, only a greedy human who cared more about money, than the welfare and personal wishes of their sibling. The threats posed as an illusion--in the end it wasn't about the cardboard box--it was but a cardboard hoax._ '"

"My blogger, or should I say, The Poet, has spoken. All right, The Cardboard Hoax it is."

They giggle.

"John, I believe this warrants a toast." They let go of each other's hands and raise their glasses. Sherlock feels warm inside. It's imperative he makes his position clear to John. Now.

"John," he starts. "There's something I should say. Something I've been meaning to say for some time, but irrational fear has kept me from it. I might as well say it now."

John's eyes are warm, waiting. "Is this a speech?"

"Um, no. Sorry, you're free to drink. Cheers."

"Cheers." John's eyes are incandescent as he regards Sherlock over the brim of his glass.

"John," Sherlock begins again, realising it sounds just like the start of a speech. "I, um-" He fiddles with the stem of his wine glass. "I once rebuffed you, told you I wasn't looking for anything. I meant I wasn't looking for anything _fleeting_. Those things tend to create drama, which will surely stand in the way of my work. It doesn't interest me in the least. That's still my position."

"Are you saying you're solely interested in something long term?"

"Yes."

John chuckles, briefly stunned. "Why the hell didn't you say so from the start, then?"

"Because--which is my point in this endless conversation--attraction to adrenaline inducing danger doesn't equal sexual attraction, but can easily be misinterpreted as such, and sexual attraction doesn't equal romantic attachment."

John ponders this for a moment. "Well, I can't really argue with that."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in frustration. "You've been doing nothing else for the past few days!"

"No, I've been trying to tell you that it's irrelevant _between us_... if you feel the same way I do?"

"And what do you _feel_ , John?" Sherlock can't help the disdain creeping into his voice. This is a much too vulnerable situation.

"As I told you," John answers calmly, "it's always been a little bit of everything. I know you like to quantify, but love is love, in my opinion."

Sherlock blinks. Blinks hard, as a meaningless protest forms on his lips: "I- I couldn't know that! It was too soon! That's why I brushed you off that first night."

"Because you wanted something long term," John says gently, warm eyes regarding Sherlock in his struggle to contain the emotional turmoil. "Because you wanted love."

Sherlock nods, swallows, blinks furiously. John pushes his chair out and rounds the table in an instant.

"Come here," he says softly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. They embrace tightly for a long while, until Sherlock's breathing calms. John holds him tenderly, his mouth is on his cheek, in an almost kiss. Hot humidity wafts over Sherlock's skin when John starts speaking, low and gentle:

"I can't really claim fidelity, because, you know, um... frequent dating and such. But I haven't actually broken up with you either."

"What nonsense is this?" Sherlock sniffs, secretly amused by John's endearing stops and starts.

"I guess it's my roundabout way of telling you that you have my love and devotion," John says earnestly. "And exclusivity regarding the sex." He leans away for a moment, quirking an eyebrow, waiting for a response. "If you want it?" he adds carefully.

"Of course I want it!" Sherlock blurts out. "I want _you_ , John. Never doubt it."

"Good," says John with a smile. "Very good." The smile wanes and he licks his lips. "Huh. That's great, actually."

And now it's John's turn to try to hold back tears. Sherlock decides John needs an embrace. And a kiss. And a proper snog. It soon occurs to them that they feel a mutual need to respect Majida's wish and promptly leave the restaurant, to go home and have a proper shag too. 

So they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oFug_m7j0io) Majida plays for them  
> [Translation](http://www.shira.net/music/lyrics/lamma-bada.htm)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and acknowledgements:
> 
> Eternal thanks to my amazing, hardworking beta [Darkrivertempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest) who withstood the mass of words I threw at her, with unfaltering enthusiasm. Without her guidance and SPAG the sentences would have been way too long and words would sometimes appear in the wrong order. And without her medical knowledge John’s observations would have been very shallow. Without her musical knowledge there’d be a severe lack of correct and beautiful words describing Sherlock’s bee symphony associations.
> 
> Thank you for a truly inspiring collaboration <3
> 
> Thanks to [SincerelyChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos) for medical brainstorming about the cause of death and hormonal response, for discussion and guidance offering insights about the character’s personalities, and their emotional state.
> 
> Thanks to the hive mind of the Johnlock Fic Club Author's chat for helping me come up with ideas on how to threaten poor Miss Cushing, assisting with general problem solving and help searching for the right words,  
> and especially to [SrebrnaFH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH) for the marvellous quote “nothing says _deranged_ like a lovely nosegay of headless roses and some calla lilies" and for providing knowledge on how to treat wet wool trousers.
> 
> Some passages, names and general setups borrowed from Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Adventure of the Cardboard Box.


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